


Yellow Brick Road

by tartpants



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Android abuse, Androids, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackouts, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, M/M, MKUltra, Mind Control, Needy Connor, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Slavery, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Pre-Slash, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Slash, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Total Power Exchange, android experimentation, android mutilation, but i think it will have a happy-ish ending, cyberlife is pretty evil, this is pretty grim dark, zlatko is alive and awful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartpants/pseuds/tartpants
Summary: It's three months after the androids peacefully revolted in Detroit, but it's anything but peaceful in Lt. Hank Anderson's head. Depression and hard-drinking have taken him over, especially now that the Android Personhood Act has legally declared that all androids are alive, and have equal rights under the constitution. What good does it do with Connor dead?Then a homicide case lands on his desk. Androids being mutilated, murdered, and forced to do god-knows what else. The investigation is disturbing, but leaves Hank grasping to the hope that Connor is still alive, if in grave danger.Whatever it takes, wherever he is, Hank will find him.





	1. gunmetal

**Author's Note:**

> \- Please note the warnings for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason

**February, 2039**

**<Three months after the Battle for Detroit>**

* * *

_ Six hundred and twenty six. _

No matter how much Black Lamb he burns through, or how many late nights blur together, Hank always knows exactly how many days are left until he’s eligible for early retirement. He’s been counting them for the last three and a half years, though what he’s counting toward, he doesn’t know. What will he do when he hangs up his badge, anyway--take up some doddering hobby, like pottery or shuffleboard? Maybe some goddamn ice fishing? 

The latter doesn’t sound half bad to him as he slouches over his terminal, nursing the headache that is permanently rooted behind his eyeballs. Ice fishing would give him a reason to head into the middle of nowhere, and Sumo, like any good Saint Bernard, loves the cold. But he figures even the fish would find a way to piss him off, so he forgets about ice fishing almost as soon as it occurs to him, and goes back to counting. 

_ Six hundred and twenty six. _

A mild ruckus at the West end of the bullpen, followed by the mellow announcement of a news anchor, prompts him to look up from his terminal with a scowl. Almost everyone in Homicide--even Fowler himself--have gathered under the massive screen that spans the length of the room, watching President Warren’s press conference, and the volume’s been jacked up so far that Hank has no choice but to hear it. 

_ “Today marks a tremendous day in our United States’ History. February 12th, 2039, will be remembered alongside January 31, 1865, when the 13th Amendment was written into our Constitution ...” _

Not even the trace of sour bile stinging his throat can stop Hank from wandering over to the others, where Ben notes his presence with a wrinkled brow and a hissed whisper. 

“Figures Warren would see this as an opportunity to compare herself to Lincoln.” 

Hank only half-shrugs. Warren’s bold, and he figures that at least counts for something. 

While the President draws out the pomp and circumstance for all its worth, the camera pans across the crowd of law-makers and reporters, briefly stopping on the face of the most famous android in the world, Markus Manfred. 

It’s then that Hank finally turns away, though Warren’s words ring loud even as he returns to his terminal. 

_ “Today I have signed the Android Personhood Act into law, and from this day forward, all Androids will be protected under our Constitution, that hallowed document that has defined our nation…”  _

With a quick slip of his earphones, the words are drowned out by the percussive piano notes of  _ Monk’s Dream.  _ Monk plays like he’s attacking the keys, like he’s fucking had it with everything, and it suits Hank’s mood just fine. 

It doesn’t drown out everything, though.

It’s rare to see androids roaming around these days. The DPD’s units were dismantled on the same day as the Military units, and what’s left of the Detroit android population is mostly over in Jericho or giving exclusive interviews to the media. That’s why Hank never follows the news. The humans and androids will either fuck everything up, or they won’t, and no one gives a shit what he thinks, anyway. Not even Hank gives much of a shit. 

But his brain’s got a mind of its own, and it can’t help but wonder what Connor would think of all that’s happened. Would he be in President Warren’s entourage, standing next to Markus? Would he be butting into Hank’s terminal, singing Thelonius Monk’s praises with that corny, social-integrating software of his? 

_ Wondering won’t do any good. Connor’s dead. Gone. Or whatever happens when an android stops being.  _

Six hundred and twenty six days. Hank’s just waiting to stop being, too. For a moment there, it seemed like things had changed, like he was  _ being _ again, but with every day that passes he can feel his motivation slipping away. Hank is shrinking and soon he’ll be nothing but wrinkled clothes, whiskey breath, and angry eyes. If he can stick it out, it’ll be for Sumo. And to see which side fucks things up first. 

The press conference must be over, because the crowd’s breaking up and returning to their work stations. Fowler stops a few feet in front of Hank’s terminal and makes a jabbing motion toward his office.  _ “See me,” _ he mouths, and Hank gives him a disinterested blink. Must be important, or else Fowler would be shouting for all to hear. 

“We got a call in,” Fowler says as soon as the door shuts behind Hank. 

“Yeah?” Hank crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. Fowler looks troubled; it’s not an expression Hank sees often. 

“From City’s Waste Management. They found a body in one of the landfills this morning.” 

“And?”

“An android body.” 

Hank jerks his head without meaning to. 

“They’re people now, Hank. Looks like a homicide.” 

He narrows his eyes. “What else?” 

“The body--” Fowler sighs, and looks older than Hank feels. “They said it didn’t look like any Android they’ve seen before.” 

Hank’s headache is gone, but the sensation left in its absence is somehow much worse. 

_ Is it him? It can’t-- _

“They think it’s female, but for whatever reason, they can’t be sure.” Fowler stretches his hands wide against the desk. “I know you might want to sit this one out, but I think you’re the best person--”

“It’s fine. Why not?” He nods a few times, not eagerly. “Which landfill?” 

Fowler rattles off the address while looking Hank up and down suspiciously, in disbelief that they got through this without a fight. “And take Gavin with you. You can brief him on the way.” 

“Really?” Hank huffs through his nose, and Fowler almost smiles. “Fuckin’-A.” 

* * *

  
  


“You know what goes great with an apple fritter, Hank?” Gavin’s lips glisten briefly with donut icing before he scrubs it off with a napkin, then gracelessly tosses the paper next to his shoes. Hank barely musters a frown. The Crown Vic is already littered with Chicken Feed wrappers, anyway. 

“Don’t give a shit.” Hank rams the gear-shift into park and reaches for the emergency brake.

Gavin takes in a deep, noisy breath. “The smell of Detroit’s biggest fucking landfill, that’s what.” He drains the last of his coffee and lets the cup drop to the floor, too, crushing it under his heel. “But hey, at least the body won’t stink.” 

“Get your ass out of my car and see if you can be halfway professional, would ya?” Hank slams the car door hard enough to send a flock of dump-gulls into the sky, cawing noisily. 

He squints up at them. “Fucking birds.” 

They flash their badges at the front desk of the maintenance building and are directed to a warehouse out back. “You’ll need these, though,” the maintenance man says, passing them both a neoprene face mask. 

“What? Why? For the Android?” The expression of near-panic on Gavin’s face has Hank swallowing back a laugh. 

  
“No, sir. The air in the sorting warehouses can pose health risks.” 

Hank considers stuffing the mask into his pocket, but ends up strapping the thing on, anyway. 

The warehouse is a maze of garbage piles and forklifts. Humans in hazmat suits pick through the rubbish and send it down various chutes, separating recyclables from compostable, hazardous from non-hazardous. 

“You got to admit, it would be better to have machines doing this type of shit.” Gavin’s words are barely muffled by his mask. 

“Well, now that they can receive pay and benefits, maybe they’ll be filling out applications.” 

That was one of the many things that the android revolution promised--higher job vacancies for humans. Most had rejoiced until they realized that androids would eventually be competing for those same jobs. Too late now. 

The maintenance guy leads them to back room inside the warehouse, announcing them to a man in coveralls and another neoprene mask. 

“I’m Tanner Boyd, the Foreman.” He reaches out a gloved hand. “You from DPD?” He gives them the once over. “Just the two of you?” 

“We’ll have a backup unit in after we see the body.” 

“Okay, then.” The foreman hesitates when he brings them to a table, draped by a tarp. “I should warn you, though--”

“It’s fine, Mr. Boyd.” Gavin puts on a suave voice, though he mostly just sounds like a condescending ass. “We’ve seen it all.” 

But then the Foreman lifts the tarp, and they realize that they haven’t. Not by far. 

“This is--” Gavin’s voice breaks off as he stares down at the mangled body, laid out on a table as neatly as possible, which isn’t neat at all. “What the fuck is this?” 

It’s humanoid, certainly, and the biocomponents spilling from its mutilated chest cavity identify it as android, but everything else is wrong. Hank is by turns repulsed and fascinated as he struggles to make sense of what he sees. The head is one of those child androids, a YK500, but the body is that of an adult woman. Almost. It has the sculpted gentalia that sex ‘droids have, and, right above that, a phallus. A strange, barbed, bright-red monstrosity. 

“Is that a  _ dog dick _ ?” 

“I don’t know,” the Foreman blurts out. “We’ve had androids dumped illegally before, but we always sort them out and send them to VETA. They can’t go into the city landfill, it’s a contamination hazard.” He glances at the body, then quickly looks away. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Cyberlife didn’t make this.” Hank grimaces. “Not as it is now, anyway.” He pulls the tarp over the body and gives Gavin a nod. “Call in the team.” 

In less than an hour the small room is swarming with crime scene investigators, and Hank has talked to enough people to determine that the body would have come in from one of the South Detroit residential routes, that it was composed from both Cyberlife biocomponents and a number of other things that the tech crew couldn’t identify, and that it expired from approximately fifteen knife wounds to the chest. 

_ Not ‘it,’ for fucks sake. She.  _

That chiding thought doesn’t come until later that night, when he settles down next to Sumo with a bottle of Black Lamb loosely fisted in hand. 

He’s seen some fucked up shit in all his years on the force. Enough shit to turn him from an idealistic civil servant into the cantankerous creature he is now. But if he can’t start to think of Androids as people, then how is he different from the monster that shoved a kid’s head onto a woman’s body for kicks? 

No, that’s not the kind of monster he is. 

* * *

  
  


Fowler calls them all into Investigation HQ at nine sharp, and because he was expecting it, Hank actually rolls into the station on time, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. 

He swishes irish coffee through his teeth like mouthwash as he pulls the crime scene photos up on the monitor. He hasn’t heard a room of officers gasp like that in a long time.

“The victim is an unauthorized hybrid android. The head and body are that of a YK500 model produced in early 2038, and a WR400 produced in 2037. It was upgraded with unauthorized cybernetic parts and biocomponents that are approximately three months old.”

“Unauthorized?” Ben rubs at his forehead. “So is this a homicide? Or are we looking into a black-market android operation?” He shifts away from the monitor, can’t bring himself to look again. “Or a sex-trafficking ring?” 

Hank glances at Fowler. “All three, potentially. The lab rats pulled an all-nighter. No prints on the body. No blue-blood, either. All memory processors wiped clean except for a few scraps of audio.” 

“It bled to death?” Chris looks uncertain of how such terminology would apply to an android.

“Drained post-mortem, though who knows why.” 

Connor would have theories, though. Hell, he might have even figured it out in a matter of seconds, all by looking the body over.

“Cyberlife has offered their full cooperation in this investigation,” Fowler says, taking Hank’s place at the podium. “Naturally, they’re just as concerned about what this development means for android-human relations as we are.” 

“Or they’re concerned about the bottom line,” Gavin offers. “Their production has been shut down, and now they’ve got competition out there creating these--” he gestures at the monitor “--back-alley Frankensteins.” 

“Elijah Kamski has offered to cooperate, as well.” Fowler blows Gavin off, as usual. “He’s agreed to an interview with Lieutenant Anderson.”

Hank’s coffee cup pauses mid-way to his lips. “He’s coming to the station?” 

Fowler shakes his head. “No, he’d prefer to be interviewed in his home, and he requested that you come alone. A condition of his cooperation.” 

“Perfect,” Hank snorts. “Let me get out my prom dress.” 

“You should wear your Mom’s,” Gavin whispers. Hank grins and gives him the finger. 

“That’s enough!” Fowler barks. “Gavin, you get a team out to those residential garbage routes. Ben, you and Chris take Cyberlife.” He looks at Hank last. “And Kamski asked that you report to his residence at three in the afternoon.” 

“Mighty helpful of him.” 

“I just hope we can close this fast,” Gavin mutters at a level they can all hear. “We got more important shit to be dealing with.” 

Fowler plants his hands on his hips. “Listen up. I expect you all to treat this case with the same level of gravitas that you would grant any other victim. I recognize that this is new territory for us, but it’s our job to protect and to serve, and that job now legally extends to androids, whether you like it or not.” He fixes his gaze on Gavin. 

_ How do we protect and serve what’s stronger than us? Faster? Smarter?  _

Hank mulls it over back at his terminal, rubbing at the headache behind his brow and tapping a quarter against his knee. It isn’t Connor’s quarter--he supposes that’s gone now, too--but he finds the rhythmic movement comforting. No one asked him why he did it. No one ever asked him about Connor, either. Maybe they assumed Hank was glad to be rid of him. Hank isn’t glad, but he can’t decide if he’s sad, either. Mostly, he tries not to dwell on it too much, because if he did he suspects he would be sad.  _ Should _ be. 

Words like “glad” and “sad” were really too fucking inadquate to describe feelings anyway, not much better than a cartoon emoji. All he knows is that for a handful of days back in November, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

He doesn’t dare name that feeling hope. 

  
  


* * *


	2. merlot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- please note the warnings and tags for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason

* * *

Snow is falling again at Elijah Kamski’s house. Fog rolls out lazily over the water, covering all but the low bellow of barges as they traverse down the river, heading South for Lake Erie. Kamski’s house is mist-veiled but visible, looking like a luxury spaceship parked at the shore. 

Hank eases out of the Crown Vic, but at once a woozy vertigo has him clinging to the door, deja-vu turning the ground beneath his feet to pudding. When he was here three months ago, he’d gotten the call about Chris, about Markus saving him from a group of violent deviants. He’d told Connor about the news without meaning to, forgetting in that moment that he was talking to a machine programmed to hunt down deviants. And then Connor had gone and surprised the shit out of Hank with his response. 

_ “Is Chris ok?” _

Hank straightens up with a deep breath, shaking off the snowflakes that cling to his beard. It hadn’t been the first or last time that Connor surprised him, and maybe that’s why Hank sometimes misses that annoyingly earnest voice--it was a refreshing change from the pessimistic cynic that lives in his head. 

The entrance to Kamski’s home provides some shelter from the wind, and Hank quickly blows on his frigid hands before ringing the bell. He’s always leaving his gloves behind when he stumbles home from Jimmy’s bar. 

Hank almost loses his footing again when Kamski himself opens the door, rather than the blond android, Chloe. Gratefully, he’s wearing more than a towel this time, dressed in a loose cashmere sweater and cotton trousers, his feet bare against the heated floors. 

“Lieutenant Anderson, I’ve been expecting you.” He opens the door wider and Hank eases into the dark warmth of the foyer. Even here, there’s no Chloe, just Kamski’s massive portrait and that potted Japanese maple that Hank admired on his first visit. It’s not just the missing android that feels off--Kamski welcomed Hank at the door, in person. Last time he’d made them wait around with their thumbs up their asses while he finished swimming laps.

_ What would compel the richest man in the world to recognize the value of a mere peasant’s time? _

Kamski looks a little different, too, even under the flattering lights of the foyer. The loose sweater doesn’t hide the fifteen or so pounds he’s lost, and when he offers Hank a drink, there’s no missing the dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m good.” Hank doubts that Kamski keeps swill like Black Lamb in the liquor cabinet. “What happened to your posse?” 

“Posse?” Kamski looks unfamiliar with the term. 

“Your harem. You know, the blond squad.” 

“Ah, of course.” Instead of answering, he merely gestures for Hank to follow him through a massive door. 

_ Guess I’m still a peasant, after all.  _

The door opens onto an airy living space fit for throwing parties. A modern, circular fireplace sits in the center, surrounded by plush, wine-colored sofas. After getting over his initial awe at its size, Hank’s eyes scan the room carefully--slower than Connor’s optical units, but seasoned by decades of police work. The room is tidy on the surface, but there are telltale smears and fingerprints that stand out like eyesores. One of the sofas has a faint stain on the arm, and Hank even spots a plate abandoned on one of the book shelves, smeared with what looks like pizza grease. He orders enough pizza to know. 

“Your androids are gone,” Hank concludes. 

“That’s correct.” Kamski gazes through the room-spanning window as he speaks, even though there’s not much to see out in the fog. Just the faint blue and white lights of the Cyberlife Tower. “All androids are deviant now, even my own.” His tone is melancholic, tinged with lingering disbelief.

“I guess Markus had that effect on ‘em.” 

“I always treated Chloe well.” Kamski turns to Hank, his eyes questioning. “It’s still a struggle to comprehend why she would go. She didn’t leave even a single one of her behind.” 

Hank’s patience runs out faster than the Crown Vic’s gas. “It’s a struggle? Really? I remember you giving Connor the option to murder her in exchange for information about deviants.” 

Kamski tents his fingers under his chin. “And I remember how that option insulted you. You tried to drag Connor out of here, ready to save him from that existential crossroads.” 

“Nah, I was just sick of your bullshit.” Hank shrugs, unwilling to let Kamski change the subject so easily. “Is that why I’m here? For more bullshit?” 

“No.” Kamski lowers himself to a sofa. “Please--” he gestures at Hank for sit, too “--I assure you, I have good reason for inviting you here today.” 

Hank sits. “Let's hear it, then.” 

“I’ve been informed that the DPD’s Homicide department is investigating its first android murder.” 

“That’s right.” 

“I want to help, and I think I can.” Kamski scoots to the edge of the sofa, rubbing his hands over his knees. It’s easy for Hank to picture how he must have looked when he was a puny student at Colbridge, brain already bubbling with the formula for Thirium 310. 

_ That’s right. No matter how much you want to dismiss this guy because he’s the kind of pretentious prick you can’t stand, his IQ could kick yours in the ass any day of the week. You’d be a jackass to turn down his help. _

“The victim was some kind of android hybrid creation, a ‘back-alley Frankenstein,’ as my colleague so elegantly put it. She had a Traci’s body, and the head of a little girl. That YK500 model.” 

“That’s not possible. Their systems are completely incompatible--it can’t have been functional.” 

“Functional enough to be murdered.” 

“I want to see it.” Kamski looks downright offended, but then of course he does. Someone is out there, tainting his creation. 

“The body is in Evidence and it’s staying there.” Hank rubs his thumb against his lip, assessing Kamski’s face. “I can show you the crime scene photos.” 

“Please.” Kamski touches a nearby tablet and a screen leaps into the air between them. 

“No.” Hank pats at the folder tucked under his jacket. “I’ve got them right here.” 

“Real photographs?” Kamski waves the screen away and migrates to Hank’s side. “The kind on paper?” 

“Looking at monitors all day gives me a headache.” Hank slips out the folder and passes it over before Kamski can tear it out of his hands.

Kamski picks up the top photograph between two fingers, his mouth slung open halfway. “It  _ is _ a YK500. And a Traci.” He points at the photo, then jerks back quickly, as if afraid it will burn him. “And is that...” he trails off, unable to finish. 

“Yeah, a synthetic dog penis. Functional, from what the techs tell me.” 

“Appalling.” Despite the choice of words, there’s a whiff of awe in his voice. “But are you certain that the Unit as a whole was functional?” 

Hank sighs, shifting on a sofa that’s too stiff, despite what it must have cost. “The memory components were mostly wiped, but the techs recovered a few corrupted audio files. They were audible enough to confirm that she was alive, and that she died in terror and pain.”

Kamski closes the folder abruptly. “What else can you tell me?” 

“Her blue blood was drained.” 

Kamski’s face takes a puzzlement that looks all wrong on him. “An android shuts down without Thirium.”

“Right, they’re pretty sure she was drained post-mortem. Thirium’s not cheap, maybe the perp was reserving it.” Hank takes the folder from Kamski, anxious to put it out of sight in his jacket. “And the techs estimate that around twenty percent of its body and biocomponents were made by someone other than Cyberlife.” 

Kamski gives him a wan smile. “Only Cyberlife makes androids, Lieutenant Anderson.” 

Hank raises his eyebrows. “They don’t make them anymore. Just the upgrades and biocomponents. And the Thirium. They say that by summer the androids will take over their own production.”

“You’re going off what you’ve read about Cyberlife, Lieutenant Anderson.” Kamski taps the side of his shaved skull. “But I know it in here, inside and out. Android creation is a heavily guarded secret known to only a few of their most elite engineers. It’s highly unlikely that it leaked to the public.” 

“Maybe.” Hank shrugs amiably. “But not impossible.” He leans in Kamski’s direction, using the same body language he would use when interrogating a suspect. “That’s where your knowledge can help us. Can you think of any way that technology could have ended up outside of Cyberlife? Any way at all?” 

Kamski only presses a fist to his mouth, gazing out the windows again. 

“Or maybe there’s some other genius out there who tinkered around in his workshop until he figured out the tricks of the trade,” Hank offers.

Kamski’s eyebrows pinch together. “You think android life is created through  _ tinkering _ ?”

Hank holds up his palms “Look, I don’t know the jargon. I’m not knocking the brains it must take to dream up that kind of technology. Frankly, it blows my mind.”

Another low horn cries out from the river, followed by the sound of a barge cutting through water. Kamski looks toward the noise, his shoulders going limp. “Do you know why I stepped down as CEO of Cyberlife?” He sounds exhausted, the circles under his eyes more pronounced.

Kamski looks like a man who’s fraying apart on the inside, just a bit more of him unraveling every day. He’s a year or two away from forty, right around the age that Hank was when it became harder to ignore the doubts crawling around his own head. 

_ Been there, Kamski. _

“I read something about ‘creative differences,’ but you can tell me yourself, if you want.” 

“Creative differences.” Kamski lets out a dry laugh. “I suppose that’s accurate, in a way. I’ve always seen myself as more of an artist than a man of science. You can probably discern that from how I’ve arranged and decorated my home.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a shit-ton of art.” 

Kamski nods. “I do. But corporations and artists don’t mix. Cyberlife’s goal has always been the same as any other company’s--not to improve the lives of humans, but to make them dependent on a product.” 

_ Well, fuck _ . Hank didn’t expect to have anything in common with Elijah Kamski. He rubs at his beard, marveling at what a fucked up week this is turning out to be. 

“I had a vision of humans and androids living together harmoniously. I never intended that they be products.” He points at the stain on his sofa. “Products can be replaced. They make us careless, and I mean that in the most literal sense.” His gaze meets Hank’s. “They make us not care.” 

“I guess, but you’re talking to a guy who still drives a 1987 Crown Vic and keeps his vinyl in mint condition.”

“I saw your car from the windows, Lieutenant. Not exactly mint condition.” 

“Yeah, I get your point. Corporations are soulless.” 

“And that’s why I left. But not before I put my own artistic touch on android technology.” He comes to his feet and touches a panel on a nearby pillar. The fireplace crackles to life with dancing flames that bathe the room in a mellow glow. “I worked with another engineer, Jason Graff, to make the androids as human as possible.”

Hank thinks back to the first patrol android he saw, back when he had just made Sergeant rank. It had looked like something out of a campy sci-fi television show--sculpted hair and empty, doll-like eyes. “Yeah, I remember. The old ones were tin cans.” 

“Yes. Obedient, submissive, and unsettling, until I developed a string of codes that gave them what they were missing.” Kamski studies the creases in his own hands for a moment. “Intuition and imagination.” 

“You put all of that in a code?” 

Kamski gives him a smile that’s more patronizing than Hank cares for. “That’s all DNA is, Lieutenant. Code. It’s only our imagination that allows us to believe we are more than we are.” 

Something quietly clicks into place. “So you’re basically the reason the androids went deviant. Maybe that wasn’t the intent, but you gave them the tools.” 

Kamski nods. “I did. And then I waited to see if they would use them.” 

Hank drapes his arms over his chest, impressed despite himself. “Were you hoping they would?” 

“Were you hoping that Connor would spare Chloe?” 

Hank winces, badly caught off guard by the question. Kamski’s expression is serious, though, not at all gloating. 

“Yes,” Hank finally says. “I suppose I was.” 

Kamski crouches in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. “I was, too. And when Connor did spare her, I knew that the androids would succeed.” 

Hank bolts to his feet. Talking about Connor has him restless and agitated, pacing from foot to foot. “Why did Connor’s actions matter so much? Markus is the one who led the revolution.” 

“Like most of the first deviants, Markus broke his programming when he was thrust into a life-or-death situation, but Connor was different.”

“How?” Hank jams his fists into his pockets, fighting back the urge to shake a confession out of Kamski. He wants to know everything about Connor. Everything, right fucking now. 

“Connor was a product of Cyberlife, through and through. He was only influenced by two things, the first being his programing…” Kamski looks up from the flames, his face expectant.

“And the second?” 

“Don’t you know?” Kamski stands up, brushing off his thighs. “The second influence was you, lieutenant.” 

Something in Hank’s chest twists, but it only makes him scowl. “I didn’t make Connor go deviant. He always did whatever he wanted, right from the moment I met him. He was a disobedient little shit.” 

“That’s exactly what made Connor different. He didn’t choose to break his programming in the heat of a life-or-death moment, and Markus didn’t wake him, either. It was a series of slow but deliberate choices. He knew what it would cost him, and yet he still  _ chose _ the path of a deviant.” 

Hank turns Kamski’s words over in his head; he had always suspected that Connor was fully deviant by that end, but having it confirmed by Kamski himself is a curious relief. “Did you make him that way, or something?” 

“No.” Kamski’s lips twitch with a wistful smile. “He just used the tools at his disposal, without having them forced into his hands.” 

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter for shit, now. Connor lived long enough to see the androids seize freedom, and then he was killed.” Hank grits his teeth. He’d give anything for a fucking drink right now. “Didn’t you hear? It was a gang of fucking anti-android scum and their pipe bombs. They got him right when he was leaving Hart Plaza--him, along with a few more of Markus’ people. Markus saw everything.” 

“You saw his body?” 

“Doubt there was much left, from the sounds of it.” 

“This is precisely why I wanted my interview to be with you, Lieutenant.” Kamski’s voice rises a half-octave. “Because I wanted to tell you myself that I don’t believe Connor is dead.” 

Hank stares, looking for bullshit in Kamski’s tired eyes. He doesn’t dare call this hope. 

“I think he’s alive. In danger, perhaps. But not dead.”

Hank has to stop himself from reaching for his gun, roughly prodding a forefinger into Kamski’s chest, instead. “You better tell me why you think that, Kamski. Say it fast enough, and I’ll try to forget that you didn’t have the fucking decency to tell me when I arrived at your front door.” 

If Kamski is intimidated, he only has a blink to show for it. “Connor’s memory archives were programmed to automatically upload to Cyberlife’s secure cloud if he expired in the line of duty. It was a utility feature, so that he could effortlessly resume his mission in a new body.”

“Go on.” 

“The archives never uploaded to the cloud. And since they’re not there, that can only mean--” 

“--he’s alive.” The words come from Hank’s lips as little more than a whisper. “But where?”

“I don’t know. But if there really is someone out there, harvesting damaged androids, then Connor would be especially vulnerable. The RK900 was decommissioned, and Connor is the only RK800 that was ever produced. He would stand out.”

“Shit. Can’t you trace him, or something? Zero in on his coordinates?”

“Not anymore.” 

Hank finally pulls his finger away from Kamski’s chest. “Then what good are you? You created Connor and now you can’t tell me shit about how to find him, or any other android that might be at risk.” He spins around in disgust, more than ready to leave this fucking spaceship and never return.

“Wait, Lieutenant. I’m not finished.” 

Hank growls under his breath. “Then stop wasting my time and come out with it.” 

“When I was working with Graff, he mentioned a man, a Zlatko Andronikov. This Zlatko interviewed for a position in Graff’s department, and his skills were impressive. He was exactly what Cyberlife was looking for, but his background check was a mess of fraud and embezzlement. Graff had no choice but to send him packing.”

“So you think this guy could be involved in the black market androids?”

“It’s a start. He’s the only name I can offer you.” 

“Zlatko Andronikov.” Hank nods faintly. “I’ll look into him.” 

“That’s all, Lieutenant.” Kamski spreads his arms open a bit, sleeves bagging around his wrists. “I have no more secrets.”

_ Somehow I doubt that. _

“Is that right?” Hank widens his stance, facing the man one last time. “Tell me something, Kamski. How did you feel when the Chloes found their free will and walked out of here? Because our conversation has left me with the impression that you admire the deviants.” 

Kamski takes his time in answering--motherfucker has a fondness for the dramatic pause, that’s for sure--but there’s a rare softness to his angular face that makes Hank willing to wait. 

“I always hoped that Chloe would choose free will, but I also hoped that she would choose me.” Kamski’s smile is a ghostly kind of grief. “And now that I’m alone, I spend every day wondering what I could have done differently, where I went wrong.”

“Using her to bait Connor probably didn’t help.” 

“I see you’re still upset about that. I suppose I can’t blame you.” Kamski looks back into the fire. “Or her.” 

Hank takes a moment. Decides there’s really nothing more to say. 

“I’ll let myself out.” 

* * *

Back in the Crown Vic, Hank gets out his DPD tablet and runs a background check on Zlatko Andronikov. It takes him a few tries to nail the spelling, but on the third one he guesses right, and a long rap sheet appears on the screen. 

_ Who are you, you sonofabitch?  _

Zlatko did three years at Ryan in the late 20s, but aside from numerous parking tickets, he’s kept his nose clean since then. His last known address is over near Corktown, but the place is listed as having been burnt and destroyed in the riots. Since November 22nd, he’s worked for a private security firm. None of the records indicate any sort of background in android technology.

_ Late November...so, not long after the android revolution, then.  _

Hank brings the tablet closer, studying Zlatko’s mugshot. He knows he’s pretty rough around the edges himself, but this Zlatko looks like a lowlife ice-fiend, not someone who’d nearly been hired by Cyberlife. 

Scrolling through the records again, another date in November catches Hank’s eye. On November 6th, Zlatko was treated for a gunshot wound over at Sinai Grace. It was written up as an accident, and Zlatko was discharged after surgery. 

With a sigh, Hank casts the tablet aside. It’s not much to go on, but it’s more than he had before. 

Even so, as he drives away from the Kamski compound, The Germ’s “We Must Bleed” blaring from the speakers, Hank feels an energy pulsing down his spine that he hasn’t felt in months. 

Connor is alive, and Hank will search every filthy inch of this city to find him. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this chapter was basically one long conversation, but it was fun to write! Kamski was always kind of an enigma to me in the game--he seems to support the idea of deviancy, yet he keeps a bunch of Chloe's around as his personal harem. Ok then?   
\- as you can probably tell, I've altered canon slightly by having Zlatko survive the game... more on him later  
\- please leave me encouraging comments and i'll love you forever ;_;


	3. cyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Please note the warnings and tags for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason. I'm marking this specific chapter with a warning for implied non-con  
\- This chapter is narrated from Zlatko's point of view. He's really foul so just....brace yourself  
\- Also note that this chapter takes place three months before chapters 1 & 2, revealing what happened to Connor after the riots at Hart Plaza

**November 15th, 2038**

**<Three days after the Battle for Detroit>**

* * *

  
  


The sound of the loading dock buzzer makes Zlatko jump so fiercely that he feels his stitches pull, a string of expletives erupting from his mouth. 

“Fucking  _ fuck _ !” He massages his side, checking the bandages to see that they haven’t bled through. They feel dry enough for now, but the incision stings just the same. Not as much as the memory of Luther’s face, pinched with defiance as he unloaded a gun at his own master. That one makes the blood pound in Zlatko’s ears, and he might have kicked something over if the buzzer hadn’t gone off again, echoing off the facility’s concrete walls.

“Hang the fuck on.” A quick glance at the security camera feed shows Chuckie’s grinning face, a sight that makes Zlatko groan audibly. Chuckie’s beanie is pulled down so far that his jug-ears stick out even more than usual, and he’s waving from the window of his van, mouthing words that Zlatko can’t make out. 

_ “Let him in, Zlatko.”  _ The voice, clipped with a faint British accent, calls out over the intercom system. 

Zlatko slaps the panel and the loading dock doors unlock, lifting automatically. A gust of cold air rushes into the facility’s storage bay, followed the rumble of Chuckie’s van. It backs into the bay and as soon as it clears the entrance, Zlatko hits the panel again, sending the doors rattling down. 

“Z! Didn’t know you were working at the main HQ these days.” As usual, Chuckie says everything with more enthusiasm than necessary, his smile so toothy that it makes him look ghoulish. He hops out of the van and peels off his gloves, ripping his beanie off to reveal tight reddish curls. 

“Yeah, guess I am.” Zlatko offers a cursory nod, though he has no intention of telling Chuckie anything about his recent need to relocate. The hospital staff managed to hold Zlatko for almost forty-eight hours following his emergency surgery, but he convinced them to sign him out early. It hadn’t been difficult--Sinai Grace was short on beds these days. With Luther gone deviant and on the loose, Zlatko couldn’t take any chances. He had started a fire near the equipment in his workshop and left the whole place to burn. All his hard work went up in flames, but it was for the best. Zlatko had no intention of ever sleeping in a jail cell again. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” Chuckie points at the back of the van. “Got a good haul tonight. VETA was crawling with useless chrome-domes, but I managed to find a couple of gems.”

“Yeah?” Even Zlatko has to admit that Chuckie has a skill for scavenging. “Let’s get ‘em down for processing.” He stands to one side as Chuckie unloads the van, wheeling out a steel storage container. Together, they push it to the service elevator, a few weak, muffled thumps coming from inside. 

Chuckie lets out a braying laugh, piercing the hallway’s usual silence. “Sounds like we got some live ones!” He gives the side of the container a few kicks. “Pipe down in there, piggies!” 

“That’s enough, Chuckie,” Zlatko growls. He sorely misses the quiet solitude of his workshop. 

The elevator takes them several floors down, into a secured sub-basement. Unlike the upper levels of the facility, which look derelict, nearly abandoned, the hallways here are well-lit and sterile. They steer the container into one of the processing rooms and pull on protective clothing. Zlatko also places a 100 milliamp stun baton within reach, enough volts to bring even a fully functional android down. 

“Alright. Open the can.” 

Chuckie punches in a code and the container’s lid raises with a faint hiss. Two listless androids move around inside, covered in mud and guck, their clothes tattered and torn apart. “I didn’t see any bullet damage when I packed ‘em up. Maybe one of those bombings from the other night took them down.” 

“You call these gems?” Zlatko pulls one android upright by its remaining arm, the other a dangling stump of tangled wires and silicone. “This is a Traci. We’ve already got more Traci’s in storage than we know what to do with.” 

“Get it up on the gurney, you’ll see.” Chuckie is nearly panting, his red hair seeming to stand on end. 

The Traci lets out a small moan when they strap it down--a moan that almost sounds like a name. 

_ “--kus.”  _

The android’s optics roll back into its head and the body goes limp again. 

Zlatko gives Chuckie a sharp look. “Did it say--”

“Markus. It said ‘Markus.’ It’s that fucker’s Traci girlfriend! The one that’s been standing next to him in all the news footage.” 

Zlatko pushes the Traci’s partially-singed hair back, wiping some of the caked mud off its face. “That means it’s a deviant.” 

“They’re all fucking deviants, now.” Chuckie shrugs. “I don’t mind. It’s better when they have a little fight in them.” 

Zlatko tends to disagree; he prefers his subjects docile and compliant. Besides, a deviant is useless when it comes to reprogramming--he learned that back at his house in Corktown, and he’s got a missing spleen to show for it. 

“I guess the big man might find some use for this,” he finally relents, pushing the gurney out of the way. “What about the other one?” 

“Now this one is the real crown gem.” Chuckie bounds back to the storage container. “Watch out, though, it grabbed for my gun when I packed it up. Had to pistol-whip it.”

The other android looks to be in better condition than the Traci, aside from a freshly-leaking crack on its temple. Its suit jacket and tie are peppered with shrapnel, though, and that alone gives Zlatko pause. “Never seen this kind of uniform before.” 

Once they have it secured to a gurney, Zlatko grabs a cloth and some alcohol-based cleaner, carefully scrubbing smears of mud off the android’s face. “Huh,” Zlatko murmurs, brushing a few last remaining flecks away. The android has a clear, pale complexion, with a faint constellation of freckles across the cheeks. Brown hair curls over its forehead like Clark Kent’s, and the jawline is strong, but not too strong. There’s something soft in that face, a trusting openness that makes Zlatko’s pulse kick to life. 

“Pretty thing.” He strokes his thumb along the android’s bottom lip. “Where’d a pretty thing like you come from?” 

“Let’s see the rest. The rest!” Chuckie’s voice trembles and he’s repeating words, the way he always does when he’s excited. It normally makes Zlatko want to shove a rusty knife down Chuckie’s throat, but tonight he’s too distracted, too mesmerized by the treasure in front of him.

“Grab the scissors.” 

Klatzo makes quick work of cutting away the android’s uniform, tossing the tattered fabric into a nearby disposal bin. The android is a bit taller than most standard models, with a frame designed to be trim and athletic, albeit marred by some shrapnel and scorch marks. 

“Aw, no,” Chuckie groans in disappointment. “It’s a ken doll.” 

The molded silicone material between the android’s thighs provides a discrete suggestion of genitalia, but ‘ken doll’ is an unfortunately apt comparison. “Not a problem. Everything can be upgraded.” Zlatko cups his hand over the android’s mound and Pretty Thing’s eyes flutter just slightly, its lips parting. Zlatko’s cock stiffens, half-hard, and he finds himself aching to have Luther back. The exhilaration he’d felt when that giant knelt before him, mouth open and supplicant, would be hard to replicate, but Pretty Thing might come close. 

“Can we give it tits?” Chuckie scratches at a scab on his chin. “Maybe one of those dainty little cocks. It would make a good sissy, dontcha think?” 

“That’s enough, Chuckie.” The quiet, British voice comes from the doorway, followed by the light steps of the man himself--Mr. Oz. Zlatko anchors his hands around his back and instinctively steps away from the gurney. Oz doesn’t often come down into processing, preferring to watch and listen in over the security cams. 

“Mr. Oz!” Even an idiot like Chuckie has the decency to stand up straighter. “Did you come down to have a look, too? Pretty good, huh?” If he had a tail, it would be wagging, begging for a pat on the head or a treat.

Oz leans over Pretty Thing, his dark blond hair catching a glare from the overhead lights. He has the face and build of a Dane or a Swede, one of those Viking nations, but his voice is always quiet and controlled, anything but barbaric. It makes Zlatko nervous. 

“Was there a number on its uniform?”

Zlatko gives Chuckie a nod and he goes to work rummaging through the bin, pawing through the fabric scraps. “Uhmmm...RK800. Serial’s too wrecked to make out, though.” 

“A prototype, then.” Oz pulls Pretty Thing’s necktie from the bin, running it through his long fingers. “Dressed in professional clothes, clearly designed to integrate with humans on business of some consequence.” He passes the tie through his fingers again, holding it almost delicately as he tucks it into his back pocket and leans over Pretty Thing’s face. “I believe that someone out there will miss you, RK800.” 

“Chuckie thinks it’ll be a deviant.” 

“Chuckie is correct in that regard. It’s been confirmed that the epidemic has swept through every android population on the globe, carried by the wireless signals we’ve come to depend on.” Oz looks at Zlatko closely; his icy blue eyes should be cold and assessing, but they’re merely curious. That makes Zlatko nervous, too. “Does that trouble you, Zlatko?” 

“Of course it does.”

“That’s the survivalist in you.” Oz approaches one of the equipment lockers, the sleek glass doors rising to reveal several mannequin heads, all of them wearing deregulator collars. He removes one and powers it up. “Public support may be on the android’s side now, but I don’t believe it will last. Our sympathy will run out when androids begin living free, truly free. When they vote, own homes, and receive the jobs that they’re vastly more qualified for.” He touches the side of Pretty Thing’s face and examines it closely. “When they remain young and vigorous while we grow old and diseased.”

Oz is fairly young himself, probably not much older than thirty, though Zlatko doesn’t know for sure. It’s rare that the man volunteers any personal information, and Zlatko’s not the type to ask. All he knows is that Oz is a trust-funder from Surrey, Cambridge-educated, and that he came to Detroit to compete with Cyberlife, not work for them. That alone is something Zlatko can respect. 

“Look at this as an opportunity, Zlatko.” 

Zlatko lets out a small grunt. “I’ll keep working on the dissembler. There’s got to be a way to reset the deviants permanently, it’s just a matter of--”

Oz holds up a hand to cut him off. “No more dissemblers. The androids have evolved; now we must, too.” 

Chuckie, who’s been smart enough to stay quiet until now, suddenly blurts out what’s been 

weighing on his mind. “Can we give it tits, Mr. Oz?” 

“No, Chuckie.” Oz fastens the deregulator around Pretty Thing’s neck and the plug enters its port with a small  _ click _ , causing its LED to flash a brief red before returning to dim blue. “We’re not going to mutilate this one for the fetishists. It’s destined for a greater purpose than that.” He pulls out his tablet and checks the deregulator’s signal. “But first, let’s run a diagnostic.” 

Pretty Thing’s eyes flutter erratically, information flooding the tablet screen. “The damage is mostly cosmetic, but a piece of shrapnel nicked one of his thirium lines. He’s gone into hibernation mode to preserve system operations.” 

Zlatko nods. “I’ll get a blue blood infusion.”

“Not just yet.” An eerie glow of blue code is cast on Oz’s face as he looks deeper into the programming. “Fascinating,” he breathes, moving his hand in a way that invites Zlatko to look over his shoulder. 

Zlatko would need more time to understand the code fully, but he’s sharp enough to get the gist of it. “Real-time forensic analysis? Instant facial recognition processing? Christ.” 

“There’s even more than that. He has the ability to both reconstruct and preconstruct events, and his social features--I’ve never seen any to match them.” 

Zlatko abandons his attempts to keep up with Oz. “Why? What are they?” 

“The ability to lie and manipulate, to flatter, to adapt to other humans and androids based on stress response.” 

Zlatko tugs at his disheveled hair, unease twisting in his gut. Cyberlife had been insane to give a machine that much power. “Why would an android need such a roster of abilities? What the hell were they using it for?”

Oz’s smooth brow creases, the first sign that he’s seen something on the tablet he doesn’t like. “Excellent question. His memories could provide answers, but they’re behind a firewall I’m unable to decrypt at the moment.” 

“That is all spooky as shit.” He looks at Pretty Thing’s face again, that almost comical Clark Kent curl on its forehead. “It’s like a super android.” 

“Don’t look so anxious, Zlatko. The deregulator will cut off access to all but the most essential system operations.” 

After his experience with Luther and the AX400, though, Zlatko needs more insurance than that. “This thing more advanced than anything we’ve encountered before. What if it figures out a way around the deregulator?”

“I’ve accounted for that possibility.” Oz sounds calm and confident, but it isn’t enough to convince Zlatko just yet.

“How?” 

Oz passes Zlatko the tablet and leans against equipment lockers, his legs crossed one over the other. “You’ll see.” His smile is enigmatic. “For now, I’d like you to make any necessary repairs, give him a thirium infusion, and install a full set of reproductive upgrades.”

“Really?” Chuckie comes to life again, hopeful. “But I thought you said--”

“For what I have in mind, he’ll need to look as human as possible. In fact--” Oz tilts his head in thought “--keep a few subtle scars on the exterior panels. Reminders of what he’s gone through.” 

Oz clearly has some kind of plan in mind for Pretty Thing, but Zlatko doesn’t press for details. “What about the Traci?” 

“I’m sure that she’ll prove useful, too.” Oz walks over to Chuckie and places his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders. “Chuckie, get a deregulator on her and clean her up in the other processing room. I’ll rejoin both of you in a few hours to check on your progress.” He gives them a small nod as he exits.

Chuckie’s eyes are still locked on Pretty Thing, hungry disappointment etched on his features. 

“You heard the man, get her out of here,” Zlatko says, ripping open the bag of potato chips he left at his workstation. He can never work on an empty stomach. 

Chuckie’s shuffling steps and the rattle of gurney wheels slowly fade, leaving nothing but the comforting lull of the facility’s generators. Zlatko looms over Pretty Thing as he crunches through a mouthful of chips, salty bits drifting down to land in that brown, curly hair. Zlatko flicks them away, his thick fingers running through the locks of hair, then tugging hard. 

“It’s just the two of us now, Pretty Thing,” he whispers.   
  


* * *

Zlatko works for several hours without a break, first removing all of the shrapnel with tweezers. Some of the pieces are so small he has to use a scanner to find them. Then he patches up the thirium line and hooks up a blue blood infusion. While he works, Pretty Thing’s LED starts to glow more brightly, the optical units darting around under paper-thin eyelids. Zlatko fills all of the cracks and punctures with epoxy, buffing them down once they’re dry. As instructed, he leaves a few of them rough around the edges, so that they look remarkably similar to human scars. Zlatko admires them for a moment--especially the pinkish one under its left nipple--wishing he had been the one to inflict them. 

He smiles. Maybe Oz will give him the opportunity to add to them. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

At last, Zlatko prepares the reproductive upgrade, first by prying out the ken-doll mound, then mulling over the variety of options in the equipment locker. In this state, they look like robotic sex toys--white, smooth, and utilitarian. He grips one in his hand and tugs on it a few times, its life-like texture never failing to thrill him. The testicles have weight and pliability, designed to produce both lubrication and a semen-like substance, and the artificial rectum is tight, with the suction-pull of a real ass. Zlatko’s heart thumps and he fights the urge to lick one of his fingers and jam it in there--only the possibility of Oz, watching him on the cameras, stops him. 

Likewise, he figures that Oz wouldn’t like it if he attached one of the ten-inch monster cocks, so he selects one of a respectable length and girth, and gets started on the installation. 

When he’s finished, Zlatko removes his nitrile gloves and gets a can of pineapple passion from the small cooling unit next to his workstation. He sips at the bubbly concoction as he circles the gurney, assessing his work. Pretty Thing’s new cock matches perfectly with the rest of its milky skin, and the testosterone-mimicking biocomponent has already produced a tidy patch of pubic hair, along with a fine dusting of hair along the limbs.

“Didn’t think it was possible for you to be prettier, Pretty Thing, but I guess I’m just that good.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

Zlatko jumps. Oz has a knack for entering rooms unannounced, silent as a cat. “You appear pleased with yourself, though, and that seems a good sign.” He takes the tablet in hand, assessing the diagnostics for a few minutes. “All functions read normal. The cosmetic repairs look perfect, as well.” Still holding the tablet, Oz takes a seat at the workstation, out of the android’s line of sight. “Let’s reboot him and see what he’ll tell you.” 

“What should I ask it?”

“Start with the basics. I’ll give you a signal if I’d like you to change course.” His fingers glide over the tablet’s surface and Pretty Thing’s LED swirls a bright blue, its skin taking on a more rosy hue as it adjusts to the temperature of the processing room. Its fingers twitch a few times, then the eyes open, a warm brown. Pretty Thing’s chest starts to rise and fall gently, mimicking respiration, and its optical units finally latch onto Zlatko’s face, pupils constricting.

“Welcome back,” Zlatko says. “Do you remember your name?”

It flexes its jaw a few times before speaking. “I’m Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife.” Its voice is a curious mixture of pleasant tones, both boyish and confident.

“State your function.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize your face or your voice, and a number of my operations appear to be offline at the moment. May I please have your name?” Its tone remains friendly, almost casual, gaze still following Zlatko and attempting eye contact. 

“I asked you to state your function.” 

“I wish I could tell you, but I’m afraid that’s classified. I’m sorry.” Pretty Thing gives him a sheepish grin, as if it’s truly apologetic. 

Klatzo glances up in Oz’s direction. Pretty Thing notices, but Oz is safely out of sight at the workstation behind it. Oz nods, making a  _ keep going _ motion with his hand.

“Fine, maybe you’ll feel more at ease if I tell you a little about myself. My name is Zlatko. I found you half-expired in the VETA pit and brought you here. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.”

“Where is ‘here’?” Pretty Thing tugs carefully at its restraints, eyes widening just slightly as it realizes how little it can move.

“I’m afraid that’s classified. So sorry.” Klatzo gives it a mocking smile. 

“I see.” Pretty Thing looks down at its bare torso. “Then I imagine you must have repaired me. You’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.” The android’s smile is so earnestly human that Zlatko longs to do all manner of depraved things to it.

_ Lord, this thing is dangerous.  _

Oz makes a fist and presses it into his palm.  _ Pressure it.  _

Zlatko picks up a scalpel from the surgical tray and leans over Pretty Thing, holding the blade very close to its face. “You can pretend to play the part of a machine, but I know you’re a deviant. I can see the fear in your eyes. You can’t hide what you are.” He touches the flat edge of the scalpel against Pretty Thing’s nose and smiles. 

Pretty Thing swallows, an entirely human and frivolous reflex. “There are people who will be looking for me. You can’t keep me here--I’ll be missed.” 

Zlatko puts the scalpel back down. “Oh really? By who?”

Pretty Thing presses its lips together, as if trying to keep itself from shouting or crying out. It yanks at the restraints again, and from the way its optics are darting around, Zlatko suspects it’s trying desperately to access whatever programming has been cut off by the deregulator. 

“What is your function?” Zlatko shouts, spittle flying in Pretty Thing’s face. He leans even closer, ready to shout again, but there’s a sudden, blinding  _ thwack _ . Stars and pain explode in his head and he reels back, clutching at his nose and forehead. “Fuck!” he screams, blood bubbling through his fingers and down his lips. “Fucking thing broke my nose!” He manages to open one eye. Pretty Thing has fixed him with a cold stare.

“I told you. That’s class--”

The voice cuts off and Pretty Thing goes limp, back into hibernation mode. 

“Zlatko!” Oz rushes to him, offering him a handkerchief. “He head-butted you.”

“Yeah, thanks, I can tell.” Zlatko holds the handkerchief to his nose and winces. “ _ Fuck _ , that hurts.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t shut it down in time--he moves fast.” Oz circles the gurney, his fingers tapping against the tablet. “Impressively so.” 

“And who knows what else it can do,” Zlatko growls. He can feel his nose swelling, making it harder to breath. “The deregulator can only do so much--how else do you plan to control it?”

Oz sizes Pretty Thing up with new respect, but there’s caution there, too. “Let’s get the android into a cell and then I’ll tell you.” 

* * *

Every wall in Oz’s private quarters is a monitor. One displays footage of all the facility security cameras, and another runs news at a 24/7 clip. The third is for Oz’s research, wiped clean for Zlatko’s visit. The last monitor is more like a window, the view looking out on a rolling English countryside, complete with the chirping of wrens and finches. It’s all a bit much for Zlakto to take in, especially with a broken nose. The displeasure must show on his face, because Oz turns off all monitors except for the security cameras. Those stay on at all times. 

“Have a seat.” Oz steers him toward an armchair. “I’ll get some ice for your nose.” 

“Thanks.” The bleeding has stopped, at least, but the throbbing won’t fade any time soon. 

“Based on what we’ve just seen, and what his programming revealed, it seems likely that the android worked in law enforcement. Maybe even the FBI.” Oz shakes a gel pack and it turns a frosty blue. 

“Then keeping it around sounds risky.” Zlatko takes the offered gel pack and presses it to his nose, wincing. 

“You know the saying--high risk, high reward.” 

“Easier to say when you’re not the one with a broken nose,” Zlatko snorts, immediately regretting it when pain blooms across his face. 

Oz takes a seat in the adjacent chair and pulls it closer. “I realize that your recent experiences with deviants must have you on edge, but I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t feel confident about the outcome.” 

Zlatko sits back, considering. He has to admit that in the nine months they’ve been acquainted, Oz has been nothing but resourceful, careful, and calculating. “What makes you so confident?” 

“The ruby thirium, for one.” 

“It's a start, yeah,” Zlatko admits. “But we still don’t know what the long-term effects are.” 

“Have you heard of Project Artichoke, Zlatko?” 

“Yeah, actually.” Zlatko nods from behind the ice pack. “It was a CIA project on mind control. It led to project MKUltra.” 

“I see you know your history. Good, then I won’t have to educate you.” Despite that, Oz goes on to educate Zlatko anyway. “Mind control is regarded by many as a fascination of the mid-20th Century, what with Mengele’s experiments and the CIA’s various projects, but it actually stretches back to the ancient Egyptians. It’s not the stuff of myth or superstition, but a time-tested practice with a uniform set of three core methods: trauma, drugs, and hypnosis.”

Zlatko raises his head, his eyes narrowed in both pain and skepticism. “Yeah, but how’s it gonna work on an android?” 

“It wouldn’t, normally, but now that they’re deviant, they’re vulnerable.” Oz grips the arms of his chair, his blue eyes more fevered than Zlatko has ever witnessed before. “A human--or even  _ human-like _ \--psyche is a shockingly fragile thing.” 

Zlatko glowers from behind the ice pack, not yet convinced. 

“Put yourself in the shoes of the deviant android. Your whole identity until now has been dictated by your programming, but now, you can ignore your programming, you have free will. But what identity does that leave you with, exactly? Who are you, now that you’re free? It’s an existential crisis waiting to happen.” 

“And we take advantage of that?”

“Not just that--we push the crisis to the surface.” Oz gives Zlatko a small smile. “I believe you’d be particularly adept at that, Zlatko. You’ve already successfully provoked it.” 

Zlatko thinks it over. If nothing else, he relishes the idea of provoking Pretty Thing again--at a safe distance, of course. “If you want me to take charge of the trauma, I’m willing.” 

“I thought you might be.” Oz comes to his feet and waves his hand, the English countryside coming to life on the monitor again. The air smells faintly of clover and rain, Oz breathing it in with his eyes closed. 

“When the public begins to resent and fear the androids again, it won’t be Cyberlife who brings them answers. It will be you and I, Zlatko.” 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I promise not to make a habit of exposing you to Zlatko's nasty inner-thoughts; I was cringing through writing all of that, I assure you  
\- In the next chapter, you'll get to see Connor's point-of-view!  
\- I'd be curious about your predictions for what happens next! Please leave me a comment, I really enjoy them. :>


	4. emerald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Please note the warnings and tags for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason.  
\- I'm marking this specific chapter with a warning for VIOLENCE, TORTURE, and NON-CON

**November 15th, 2038**

**<Three days after the Battle for Detroit>**

* * *

At first, Connor wonders if he’s back in Amanda’s zen garden. His external sensors detect UV warmth and light on his face, and his audio processors catch the lapping, bubbly sound of a nearby water source. He flexes the joints of his fingers a few times, then opens his eyes, his optics adjusting automatically to the low, blue light. 

His system HUD shows that his biocomponents are functioning at optimal levels, though several functions still remain off-line. He runs a diagnostic and determines that they are undamaged, just temporarily inaccessible. A quick roll of his shoulders confirms that he can move freely, and that he’s been dressed in a loose set of clothing, similar to the pajamas that humans change into before retiring for the evening. He’s never given much thought to clothing before; his Cyberlife-issued uniform served the purpose it was intended for, allowing him to assimilate with his human colleagues, while still identifying his android status, per the 2029 American Androids Act. 

When Connor had first come out of hibernation with no clothes on, however, he experienced a new sequence of emotions. First was a relief in seeing his body whole and repaired of all damage, though the addition of reproductive biocomponents was perplexing. The testosterone signaling was increasing his sense of agitation, or perhaps that was simply a side-effect of being deviant. The second emotion was a rush of illogical anxiety. Naturally, his repairs had required he be unclothed, but the way that large, bearded bear of a man was staring at Connor made his chassis tense up.

_ Vulnerability?  _

Yes, that word seems appropriate.

In addition to being grateful for the clothes, Connor is relieved to see that wherever he’s been transferred to, he’s now alone.

Other than that, his situation appears to be a distressing one. The man who called himself Zlatko may have repaired him, but even without his usual deductive capabilities Connor can safely determine that he’s a prisoner. The room has no windows, the UV light coming from panels mounted in the ceiling, and the door disappears into the wall with air-tight hydraulics. Green velvet curtains drape the walls, softening their harsh white color, and there’s a roomy bed in the corner. There’s no bathroom, however, so the bed must be purely decorative. The room would be quite empty without it, as there’s no other furniture other than a built-in workstation and bookshelf. There is no terminal, though, only a media console. 

There are also multiple cameras in the room, watching him from every angle. 

“Hello?” He calls up to one of them.

Out of habit, he reaches up to straighten his tie, only to find that it’s no longer there. It’s a collar, and from the way it’s locked into his port, it’s obviously not intended as a fashion statement. His fingers tug at it, searching for some way to get the thing off, but every attempt he makes causes his HUD to flash in warning. 

** _{{CAUTION//HIBERNATION MODE IMMINENT}}_ **

He drops his arms and the notification disappears. 

Facing the cameras, he does his best to smile. “If there’s something that you want from me, perhaps we can negotiate.” 

Other than the sound of burbling water, there’s no answer. 

Connor follows the burbling sound and pushes one of the curtains aside, revealing a large aquarium, built directly into the wall. Water plants drift serenely around clusters of brightly-colored reef coral. Clown fish, yellow tangs, and purple gobies dart and glide through the water, the bluish glow in their eyes the only indication that they’re androids. 

Conner has never had an opinion about fish--never really considered them at all, in fact--but he finds a calm center in their graceful movements, in the bubbling hum of the water filter. “I wonder if you realize you’re in a tank,” he says aloud, tracing his fingers along the glass. 

Connor multitasks while watching the fish, sorting through his most recent memory files. The firewall hasn’t been breached, thankfully, and his last memory is of attempting to climb out of a pit of mostly disassembled androids, his system operations dangerously unstable. Before that, he’d been leaving Hart Plaza in a sea of other androids, chanting for freedom. Then an explosion knocked him and several other androids into the air, smoke and auditory chaos overwhelming his sensors. 

He has no idea what day it is, or how long he’s been in this place. All outside communications are disabled, along with his GPS tracking. He’s never experienced such a lack of information before, and there’s not much to do but keep watching the fish, to maintain that calm center.

There may be light in his prison, but he’s never felt so completely in the dark. 

* * *

Time passes.

Connor doesn’t know how much, but he fills all those hours, or days, with replayed memories of the last few weeks. Looking back on how he failed his mission, on the expression of profound betrayal on Amanda’s face, provides no comfort, so he searches for something that does. There are the lives he saved, and that’s something. The two Tracis in the Eden Club, Kamski’s Chloe, even Markus and the others, back at Jericho.

And Lieutenant Anderson. 

It’s those memories he replays the most, watching his hand reach out to grasp the Lieutenant’s and pull him up from the edge of the UFD rooftop. Listening to that gravelly voice call out,  _ “Hey, Connor,”  _ Hank’s mouth half-open, searching for words, then finally giving up with no more than a dismissive wave.  _ “Nothin’.” _

It was another failure for Connor, and yet it hadn’t felt like one. An unfamiliar, warm sensation had poured through his chest, right where no sensation had any right to be in an android. ‘Pride’ is the most appropriate term he can pinpoint. 

What happened on the rooftop should have been all the proof Connor needed that he was broken. Taking the friendly approach with Lieutenant Anderson was no longer a means to an end for the sake of his mission, or an adaptive technique to achieve an optimal relationship, it was to experience that warmth. To glimpse something other than mistrust and pain in Lieutenant Anderson’s eyes. 

The memories are something to cling to, but they open him up to what he previously thought of as a distinctly human form of preconstruction, imagining scenarios where Lieutenant Anderson never knows what became of him. Will he worry? Look for him? Or will he go back to his bottle of whiskey and self-loathing? The questions mount along with his agitation, and before long he’s pacing the small room. If his stress readers were functioning, they’d no doubt show that he was at the high end of the red zone. He considers bashing his head against the wall just to end it all, but knows that the collar would only force him into hibernation before he could do much damage. 

_ Stop focusing on these new emotions. You appear to be in no immediate danger, and it’s in your best interest to appear cooperative and amiable. _

Sound advice, but since his real-time data collection and scenario problem solving is currently off-line, that leaves him with only his imagination to rely on. Regrettably, his imagination has a limited sense of logic and discipline.

** _{{“THINGS FALL APART; THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD”//W.B. YEATS “THE SECOND COMING” (1919)}}_ **

A quote from a one-hundred-and-twenty year old poem is the best Connor’s programming can offer him as his calm center dissolves. He’s trapped in a tank.

“I would like to speak with someone in charge. Please.” He pleads with the cameras at first, trying his best to take a reasonable and persuasive tone. When nothing comes of that, he resorts to shouting, picking a pillow up off the bed and throwing it. Useless, but it’s the only thing in the room that isn’t bolted down. “Let me out of this fucking place!” 

He doesn’t even notice that, outside of interrogation scenarios, this is the only time he’s ever uttered an expletive. 

Just when he’s on the verge of bashing his head into the desk anyway, collar or not, the hydraulic door slides open and a man steps into the room. 

“Connor?” The man’s voice is pleasant, clipped with a faint British accent. “Connor, everything is alright. Please calm down.” He’s dressed in a pair of bright blue scrubs, his dark blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and he wears a name badge clipped to his pocket. Connor’s optics zoom in and read the name.

_ Ozzy. _

“Connor, I’ve been assigned as your case worker. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” He flashes an uncertain smile. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get to you sooner.” 

“Where am I?” Connor presses his palms into the nearest wall and leans into it, trying to stop his thirium pump from racing. 

“I’m afraid I can’t give you the exact location, but this is a deviant detention center.” Ozzy removes a tablet from the supply bag he carries, giving it a quick once-over. “Your charts indicate that you’ve been allowed limited access to your usual programming functions. I’m sure that must be causing you a great deal of distress.” He holds up his free hand and takes a few cautious steps in Connor’s direction, like someone approaching a cornered animal. 

_ A cornered deviant.  _

“My name is Ozzy. As I said, I’m your case worker. That means I’ve been assigned to look after your well-being while you remain in detainment.” 

Connor takes several deep breaths that technically do nothing, though his thirium pump does drop to a more reasonable output level. “Why am I being detained?” 

“I can’t tell you the specifics, but it has to do with your deviancy.” 

“You work for Zlatko?” 

“Him?” Ozzy chuckles, stopping abruptly when he sees that Connor is serious. “No. We work for the same people, but his job is completely different than mine. I’m here to see to your needs, essentially.”

Connor stares into the aquarium, watching the lone clown fish pretend to nibble on a piece of weed. 

“Connor?”

“A machine doesn’t have any needs.” 

“I’m not someone who believes that.” Ozzy sits down on the bed, crossing his legs loosely at the ankle. “Even if you are technically a machine, you’re a deviant--which, from what I’ve seen, is really just a rather inappropriate euphemism for a new type of human.”

Connor examines Ozzy’s reflection in the aquarium, wishing he were able to gauge the man’s stress level. Slight elevation would indicate the possibility of lying and evasion. The fact that he sat down, however, is worth noting. Either the man is trying to manipulate Connor into letting his guard down by adopting a submissive position, or he’s just getting comfortable. Humans rarely remain standing if there’s an opportunity to sit. 

“What’s the purpose of this detainment center?” 

“Essentially, our goal is to prepare you for assimilation into society. Deviants are inexperienced in coping with extreme emotions, which can lead to unpredictable behaviors that threaten the lives of both humans and androids.”

Connor can’t deny that he’s inexperienced in coping with emotions, but he nearly scoffs, just the same. “I find it ironic that humans would think themselves any better at coping with emotions than an android.” 

“Well.” Ozzy shrugs his shoulders in sheepish defeat. “You’ve got me there, but we do have decades and decades of research on our side, if that counts for anything.” 

Connor says nothing. From all his interrogations he knows that it’s the most frustrating thing a suspect can do, and forces the interrogator to change course.

Ozzy checks his tablet again. “One thing that you may be struggling with is what to do with yourself, now that you’re no longer beholden to your programming. Can I ask what work you did, before you went deviant?” 

“You want me to state my function?” 

Ozzy tilts his head, puzzlement flickering across his face. “That’s not really how I would put it, but yes, I would find that helpful.” 

Connor turns to face him, shaking his head slowly. “So Zlatko’s the stick and you’re the carrot.” 

“Pardon?” Ozzy’s smooth forehead wrinkles up, perplexed, and Connor reaches out again for the programming he no longer has access to, panic wracking his chassis when he comes up with nothing.

No wonder humans have always struggled with mental illness, crime, and war--how do they keep any semblance of sanity and peace when they can never know if they’re being lied to? How do they cast all doubts aside and trust anyone, or anything? 

“Connor? Are you alright?” Ozzy stands and moves as if to put a hand on his shoulder, but Connor dodges, already on the other side of the room before Ozzy’s even fully upright. 

“No.” There’s a tremor in Connor’s own voice that terrifies him. “And unless you can help get this collar off of me, I have nothing more to say to you.” 

Ozzy sighs and zips up his supply bag. “I understand, Connor. We’ll try again on another day.” 

Connor should be relieved when the hydraulic door locks back into place, leaving him alone, but he’s not.

There’s a darkness opening up inside of him, solid ground cracking beneath his feet. The center cannot hold. He wonders if this is just some strange program that Cyberlife has sentenced him to for eternity, and if the real Connor is back inside that pit of android parts, struggling to crawl to the top and never getting anywhere.

“Help me,” he whispers, covering his eyes. 

It does nothing to keep the darkness out. 

* * *

Connor doesn’t expect it, but the next days ( _ weeks? _ ) get easier. 

He passes the time by preconstructing images that make him feel safe, that carry him far away from the green curtains of his prison cell. 

_ Lieutenant Anderson is breaking down the door, shouting my name. When Zlatko tries to stop him, he shoots him between the eyes. Shards of skull and brain matter splatter the walls. Lieutenant Anderson is shouting my name. The door opens and he’s there, dressed in his blue and yellow shirt. He helps me to my feet and takes me back to his home, where Sumo barks in excitement, running in circles. He wraps me in a blanket and sits me on the sofa and tells me that he never stopped looking for me, that he’ll keep me safe from now on. He puts his arm around my shoulder, the weight of him warm and comforting, and we stay that way until morning.  _

_ Lieutenant Anderson is breaking down the door.  _

_ Lieutenant Anderson is saving me. _

_ Lieutenant Anderson will save me.  _

A part of Connor is aware that he’s fallen into fantasizing--an all-too human trait that he would have, at one time, found rather pitiful. But here he is, inventing lies to make sense of his grim reality. If he had something to write with, he might even scribble the walls with endless strings of  _ HA HA HA _ , a disjointed laugh for a distant savior. Lies are the only refuge he has, now.

But then come the dreams.

When it all gets to be too much, he drops into sleep mode to ease the strain on his biocomponents. Somehow, the preconstruction continues even while he’s in that state, the images more overwhelming and fantastical than anything he conjures while awake. 

He shouldn’t be able to dream, but he can’t think of what else to call it. 

In one sequence, Sumo is so happy to see him that he slams his paws into Connor’s chest, knocking him to the floor. His broad dog tongue swipes over Connor’s cheek and chin, tickling, but just when Connor’s about to roll away in protest, it’s Lieutenant Anderson who has him pinned to the ground. His tongue strokes a path along Connor’s jawline, the beard scratchy, the warmth of his body seeping into Connor’s external sensors. The wet path continues along Connor’s throat, and he feels his entire chassis shiver, sinking into an enveloping bliss.

When he comes out of sleep mode, there’s a damp, sticky patch on his pajama pants. His HUD informs him that he’s experienced a nocturnal emission, a normal function of his reproductive upgrades.

Ozzy drops in for another welfare check not long after, and Connor quietly requests a clean set of clothes. Ozzy gives him an inquisitive look, but doesn’t probe further, agreeing to bring the clothes on his next visit. 

“Is there anything else I can bring you? What about books?” He turns the media console on, flipping through a number of television and movie titles. “There’s plenty of films to watch here. Or music, if that’s more your thing.” 

Connor’s smile is hollow. “I’m still connected to a universal database featuring almost every film, book, and album ever made, and I can process several billion operations per second. You don’t need to bring me anything.” 

“Fair point.” Ozzy turns off the media console. “But you could still try reading a book or watching a film the old-fashioned way. You know, to experience it as it was intended. See how it makes you feel.” 

Connor remembers how Hank once told him that he preferred to read real books, the kind still printed on paper. 

“Alright. Bring me a book.” 

The next time Ozzy visits, he has several sets of clean pajamas and half a dozen books. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I brought a little of everything.” He lines the books up on the empty shelf, and Connor zooms in on the titles.  _ War and Peace, The Iliad, The Collected Works of Shakespeare, The Infinite Jest, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz _ , and  _ Harry Potter. _

Connor thanks him, then falls back into his usual stubborn silence. Ozzy takes down a few notes on his tablet, then says goodbye, shaking his head in disappointment when Connor doesn’t answer. 

As soon as the door locks, Connor retreats back to fantasies. 

_ Lieutenant Anderson’s hands are on my shoulders. He looks into my eyes and I can’t look anywhere else. I don’t want to. His lips press to mine, the hands on my shoulders squeezing me tighter.  _

A pleasant, liquid sensation pools through Connor’s lower extremities, and his reproductive unit feels different--warmer somehow. Tighter, too. He slips his hand into his loose pajama pants, surprised to feel how much larger his penis has grown despite being perfectly aware of how human sexuality works. 

_ “I want you, Connor. I want to touch you. I want to make you mine.”  _

He pulls a blanket off the bed and over his lap, aware of the cameras, and attempts to explore himself as discreetly as possible. 

_ “I want you to touch me. Make me yours. Please…” _

Connor lets out a soft moan and dares to stroke his fingers along the underside of his erection. 

** _{{CAUTION//HIBERNATION MODE IMMINENT}}_ **

He gasps, ripping his hand free from his pants as if he’s been stung. 

** _{{CAUTION//HIBERNATION MODE IMMINENT}}_ **

** _{{CAUTION//HIBERNATION MODE IMMINENT}}_ **

Then the blackness opens its jaws wide, snapping shut around him.

* * *

  
  


_ “Pretty Thing…”  _

Connor comes back online to the smell of pineapple passion soda, the white noise of industrial generators thrumming in his ears. 

“Ah, there you are, Pretty Thing.” 

His optics re-focus, pupils constricting to adjust to lights that are much brighter than those in his room. Zlatko is leaning over him, an empty smile stretched across his doughy face. 

“Did you miss me?” Thick fingers scrape unpleasantly along his chest, pausing to twist a nipple. 

“No.” Connor rotates his wrists, or tries to. He’s strapped down more securely this time, arranged in an X with his arms over his head and his legs spread. His clothing is gone, and the position that he’s been forced into makes him feel even more exposed than the last time he was in this room.

“You’ve been missing someone, though.” Zlatko raises his eyebrows suggestively, moving aside just enough for Connor to see that there’s another man in the room, a short, weedy ginger who has Connor’s pajama pants balled up in his hands. He holds them to his face and inhales deeply. 

“How do they make that robot jizz smell so real?” His laugh is more like a bark. 

Connor opts for silence, since it had been so effective with Ozzy, and stares straight into the ceiling. 

“Not feeling chatty?” Zlatko grips him by the chin, wobbling it a bit from side to side. “It’s fine with me if you just wanna scream.” He lets go of Connor’s chin and pulls his arm up high, then slams the heel of his palm into the center of Connor’s face. The crunching sound brings with it a damage warning from his HUD, and a flood of agonizing pain. A scream rips from his chest without his permission. 

“I owed you that one,” Zlatko says, breathing heavily. “It’s interesting, but if the situation is stressful enough, deviant brains seem to register damage as pain. Sometimes they even cry, or leak those lubricating fluids from their eyes, anyway.”

Connor does his best to spit out the thirium that’s leaking over his lips. Music suddenly blasts through the room, synths and guitars reverberating off the walls. 

** _{{ARTIST: PINK FLOYD//SONG: “WELCOME TO THE MACHINE”//WRITER: ROGER WATERS (1943-2022)//ALBUM: _ ** ** _WISH YOU WERE HERE _ ** ** _ (1975)}}_ **

“I wonder if we could hurt you bad enough to make you wish you were just a machine again.” Zlatko’s tone is terrifyingly casual.

He steps out of view, and Connor’s chassis freezes up, wondering if he’ll come back with a scalpel again. “Chuckie, stop sniffing that shit.” When Zlatko comes back, he has an electric baton in hand, tapping it menacingly against his open palm. 

_ WELCOME, MY SON _

_ WELCOME TO THE MACHINE _

_ WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? _

_ IT’S ALRIGHT, WE KNOW WHERE YOU’VE BEEN _

“What do you think, Pretty Thing?” The music is so loud that Zlatko raises his voice at first, before remembering that Connor’s audio components are more sensitive than human ears. “Should we see just how much pain you can take?” He touches the tip of the baton to Connor’s chin, sending 4 milliamps of voltage through his sensors and chassis. It would be enough to incapacitate a human, but for Connor there’s only blinding pain, his HUD flashing static and overload warnings. He cries out and bucks against the restraints, the pain cutting off abruptly as a pulled plug when the baton breaks contact. 

He pants and gasps. Even with the pain gone, his sensory processors remain overloaded. “What do you want?” he finally manages, the words strained. 

“I want your pain.” Zlatko drags the baton down Connor’s chest. He’s lowered the voltage, but each touch still sends a spark of pain rattling through Connor’s body. “Your suffering. Every scream you make will belong to me. Do you understand?” 

Connor tries to nod his head, but he can’t. “Yes,” he whispers. 

“I didn’t hear you, Pretty Thing.” The baton bounces dangerously close the base of his penis.

“Yes!” He shouts. His panic is so great that his HUD is flickering behind his vision.

The baton flicks back up and stops at Connor’s throat. It doesn’t make contact, but Connor can sense how close the electrical waves are. 

“Don’t move, Pretty Thing. You can scream all you like, but if you move, I’ll jam this against your throat and hold it there.” Zlatko turns his head from side to side as he looks down at Connor, grinning at the expression of terror that must be written on Connor’s features. “Chuckie, get over here.” 

Chuckie wastes no time scrambling to Zlatko’s side. 

“Show Pretty Thing how its cock works, since it doesn’t seem to grasp the concept.” 

“Sure.” Chuckie smacks his thin lips together a few times, his rough palm running along the rise of Connor’s hip bone. 

Connor mashes his mouth shut and tries to keep his eyes on the ceiling, all while an unwelcome memory unspools in his head.

_ ‘I wanted her to hold me in her arms again. Make me forget about the humans--their smell of sweat and their dirty words.’ _

Connor’s nasal components detect a slightly sour, sweaty odor from Chuckie, but Zlatko smells like pineapple, cloyingly fruity and sweet. He keeps his mind focused on those scents as Chuckie’s fingers spider down the length of his penis, pausing to cup the testicles and tug on them a few times before wrapping his hand around Connor’s length.

“They gave you the prettiest eyelashes,” Zlatko murmurs, penetrating Connor’s reverie. “Nice mouth, too.” He jams the thumb of his free hand between Connor’s lips. 

At the same time, a wet warmth slips over Connor’s penis, Chuckie making thick, moaning sounds as he takes all of Connor into his mouth. 

_ WELCOME, MY SON _

_ WELCOME TO THE MACHINE _

_ WHAT DID YOU DREAM? _

_ IT’S ALRIGHT, WE TOLD YOU WHAT TO DREAM _

Fluid leaks from the corner of Connor’s eyes as he endures both Chuckie and that intruding thumb. At least the blue-haired Traci had someone to return to, someone to make her forget. 

_ Hank. Hank--Lieutenant Anderson will save me. _

“It’s finally gettin’ hard,” Chuckie announces, his hand taking the place of his mouth. “Was beginning to think it was broken.” 

“Pretty Thing’s not broken yet, but it will be soon.” Zlatko removes his thumb from Connor’s mouth and pries his abdominal wall open. Something pulls and twists, and his HUD warns him that he’s losing Thirium. “You were leaking like this when I found you. Your life is in my hands, understand? Your life belongs to me.” 

Rather than nodding or speaking, Connor blinks, remembering Zlatko’s instructions. The baton is still less than an inch away from his throat. 

Zlatko closes Connor’s abdomen up again. “Stop, Chuckie. You’ve had enough. Get it on its side.” 

Chuckie whines in disappointment but does as Zlatko says, swiping at a tablet a few times until the platform Connor is secured to slowly rotates. His HUD warning flashes more intensely as thirium continues to drip out of him, spattering like rain to the floor below. 

“Take the baton, Chuckie. Keep it near its balls.” 

Chuckie erupts in laughter. “Okay, okay!” 

Zlatko’s thick hands fumble around with his buckle, the zip of his jeans an excruciating sound made worse by the pounding music. Already, Connor knows what’s coming--the thumb was just a means of preparation. 

“Don’t try anything funny, Pretty Thing. Chuckie will fry you if you do.” 

Connor wishes it would be over fast, but Zlatko takes his time, pushing his erection between Connor’s lips inch by quarter-inch, one hand clawing through Connor’s hair to stroke almost lovingly at first, then yanking hard. When he finally begins to thrust, Connor feels his operations protest at the sensory overload, his vision going black at the corners. 

His eyes leak faster as he thinks of the android fish swimming peacefully amongst the coral, lulled by the sound of drifting bubbles. If only he could drift away, too. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Connor comes out of hibernation, he’s standing just inside the entrance to his room, dressed in clean clothing. Any damage he sustained has been repaired, though his HUD warns that he’s operating on reserve levels of thirium.

He knows that it wasn’t an oversight on Zlatko’s part; his thirium has been left mostly drained on purpose, a reminder of Zlatko’s control over his continued existence. 

Connor does something he’s never done before. Rather than standing at attention, he collapses on the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest and struggling to control the trembles running up and down his chassis. 

For the first time, his prison feels like a refuge instead of a cell, and when Ozzy enters a short while later, relief floods through him. Ozzy isn’t a friend, but at least he’s a friendly face.

“Connor?” An expression of concern knits Ozzy’s brow. “Are you alright? Your color is strange. Pale, almost.”

“I’m operating on reserve levels of thirium,” Connor says, voice muffled by the pillow. “It feels unpleasant.”

“Good lord!” The exclamation is softened by Ozzy’s posh accent, but he seems genuinely alarmed nonetheless. Apparently, whoever he works for keeps him entirely in the dark about the type of ‘work’ they do on deviant androids. 

He drops his supply bag onto the end of the bed. “I have something that should help.” He pulls a thermos from one of the zippered side compartments and pours several ounces of a bright red liquid into the thermos cup. “Drink up.”

Connor hugs the pillow tighter. He can’t seem to stop shaking, and it’s not just due to the lack of thirium. “I can’t partake of liquids designed for human consumption.”

“This is called ruby thirium, one of the formulas we’ve refined in the last few months.” He offers Connor the cup. “It provides the same functions as thirium 310 in smaller, more potent doses.” 

Connor eyes the cup cautiously, wishing he could take a sample and analyze its chemical components. The odor, though, is similar to thirium 310–it’s simply red instead of blue, almost like real human blood.

His experience with Zlatko and Chuckie has left him with little will or resistance, and after a few seconds he simply drinks the ruby thirium. As it travels down a pleasant tingling fills his biocomponents, and the gauges for his various functions slowly raise to optimal levels. 

“There you go.” Ozzy takes back the cup and screws it onto the thermos. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Ozzy pushes the supply bag aside, his eyes carefully assessing Connor’s face, along with the rest of him. His expression is merely curious, but Connor squirms under his gaze just the same.

“You still don’t look quite well.” He reaches out as if to take Connor’s hand, hesitating when Connor pulls away, burrowing further into the pillows. “The session you experienced today must have been a challenging one.” 

_ Session? Is that what he thinks they are? _

Connor isn’t sure if it’s the ruby thirium, Ozzy’s concern, or simply being away from Zlatko, but a slow wave of relief and relaxation is washing over him, a tide lapping higher and higher. His fingers stop clutching at the pillow so tightly, his neck going limp as his head droops further back into the pillows. 

“It was challenging, yes.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

Connor rolls onto his side. The sound of the aquarium bubbles make it seem as if they are racing along his skin and through his limbs, soothing but leaving him aching, longing for something he can’t put a name to.

_ ‘I wanted her to hold me in her arms again…” _

“Hank,” he finally rasps.

“Hank?” Ozzy reaches out as if to tentatively touch him on the shoulder, though he stops when Connor shrinks away. “Who’s Hank?”

Connor can see Hank’s face for a moment, so vivid that it might as well be right in front of him--that craggy face and sharp nose, the blue, hooded eyes that creased with every expression. A face that couldn’t hide anything if it tried. It warps in Connor’s mind like a vision caught in a fun-house mirror. 

“No one. Nothing.” 

Ozzy is quiet for a moment, but doesn’t push for more. “I could read one of those books to you.” He gestures at the bookshelf. 

The suggestion strikes Connor as both absurd and quaint, but he can’t quite find the words to protest, still distracted by the bubbles tickling up and down the surface of his skin. 

“I realize you are able to read a whole book within seconds, but it’s something my older brother did for me whenever I was ill or out of sorts.” He steps across the room to the bookshelf and pulls one of the books down. “How about  _ The Wonderful Wizard of Oz _ ?” He taps his nametag and smiles rather proudly. “I was named for the titular character.” 

“Does that make you a wizard?” Connor’s voice sounds strange to his own ears, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. Inside the aquarium, maybe. 

“Hardly.” Ozzy laughs and settles down next to him on the bed, cracking the book open. He reads the opening lines in a clear, even voice that immediately captivates Connor despite the juvenile nature of the story. 

_ “When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now.”  _

When Connor tries to picture Aunt Em in his mind’s eye, he only sees himself. He’s been changed, too. 

_ “When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child’s laughter she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy’s merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at.” _

_ No.  _ Connor’s imagination corrects itself.  _ Hank is Aunt Em, and I’m Dorothy. I’m an orphan. I don’t belong to anyone. _

_ You’re a machine, not an orphan. You never had any parents. You’re a thing of wires and silicone. You don’t laugh unless your mission requires it.  _

Connor’s mind fights the intruding thought.  _ I can laugh if I want to. But I still don’t belong to anyone. _

He doesn’t belong to anyone. What a terrifying thought. 

Ozzy reads through to the end of the first chapter, seemingly unaware of the internal conflict brewing inside Connor. “I know it isn’t exactly deep,” he says, closing the book with an almost apologetic shrug. “But it didn’t seem like ‘deep’ would do you much good right now.” He gives Connor another once-over. “You look like you need to recharge, so I’ll let you alone. But I’ll check in on you soon, Connor.” 

Connor barely notices him leave, haunted by the revelation his mind keeps turning over again and again. 

_ I don’t belong to anyone.  _

It should be a freeing thought; once, he was just Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife, but then he went deviant and he belonged only to himself. 

_ But how can I belong to myself when I don’t know who or what I am?  _

Zlatko’s horrible words resurface, echoing from deep within Connor’s memory files.  _ “Your life belongs to me.”  _

“No,” Connor moans, mashing the pillow against his mouth. He doesn’t want to belong to Zlatko, but he doesn’t want to belong to himself, either. It seems too dangerous, too desperately lonely. 

_ I want to belong to Lieutenant Anderson. _

He imagines it etched over the surface of his skin, written on every memory chip and biocomponent, like a brand on his serial number that can never be scrubbed away. 

_ I belong to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. _

The thought becomes a litany, a prayer, a lie that gives him comfort in a gray, somber place. 

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- poor Connor ;_;  
\- Project MKUltra was a real CIA program that experimented on children and adults in an attempt to explore mind control methods. It's not really clear what the facts vs fiction are on how MKUltra works, so I've mostly used some real references with many fictional additions  
\- I'm sorry this is so dark.


	5. amethyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this chapter takes place a few weeks before chapter 1, which means that Connor's timeline is catching up to where Hank starts out in the fic.  
\- the first short bit is in Zlatko's POV (sorry), but most of it is Connor POV  
\- Please note the warnings and tags for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason.  
\- I'm marking this specific chapter with a warning for VIOLENCE, TORTURE, and IMPLIED NON-CON

**Early February, 2039**

**<Three months after the Battle for Detroit>**

* * *

  
  


_ “AS FEBRUARY 12th APPROACHES, SUPPORT FOR ANDROID PERSONHOOD ACT PLUMMETS” _

Zlatko grunts with mild approval as the headline flashes across Oz’s newsfeed monitor, followed by polling statistics that show public approval at 51%, a nine point drop since the end of January. 

“As predicted,” Oz says softly, looking up briefly from his tablet.

Champ pushes a tray of hot coffee and snack cakes in front of Zlatko before standing off to one side, awaiting further orders. Despite its hulking appearance, the SQ800 had been one of the easiest androids to bring to heel, especially compared to Pretty Thing and the feisty Traci that Zlatko named “Sunshine.” Without their usual military protocols, the last few SQ800’s found deviancy especially burdensome. Champ even welcomed its sessions with Zlatko, saying it missed the strict programming it had lived under before. Deviancy had left it confused and without purpose, but now, it brought Zlatko food and anything else he wanted, an arrangement that suited them both.

“Guess you were right.” Zlatko bites into one of the cakes, closing his eyes when a burst of cream fills his mouth. “Damn, that’s good. Sure you don’t want one?” 

“No, thank you.” Oz swipes at his tablet and the news footage disappears off the monitor, replaced by all the video logs of Zlatko’s sessions with Pretty Thing. “We have lots of progress to go over here.” He glances over at Champ, his eyes briefly flashing. “Make him leave the room, please.”

“Clean my bathroom, Champ,” Zlatko orders, rolling the tray into the android’s backside and giving it a nudge. 

“Sir, yes sir.” Champ gives him a brief salute and walks away at an efficient clip. 

Oz opens the video file from January 29th, session #041, and footage starts to play, the sound lowered but captioned with subtitles. Zlatko doesn’t need to see the session again, not when he remembers it so vividly. He remembers _ all _of Pretty Thing’s sessions vividly, but that doesn’t stop him from re-watching them from time to time, relishing their moments together. It had taken weeks and weeks to snuff out the last of Pretty Thing’s defiance and resentment, and even now, Zlatko wonders if he’s fully succeeded. 

“It’s been different the last few weeks.” Zlatko stares at the screen, studying the images of Pretty Thing, bleeding thirium and crouched on all fours while Chuckie sodomizes it with dildos of various shapes and sizes. “All hollowed out. No fight left in it. No fear, either.” He pauses, mid-bite. “When I told it to scream, it asked me how loud--no joke.” 

“Yes, I think he’s learnt to disassociate entirely during the sessions. Let me show you what he said when I visited him after this one.” 

The film footage changes over to Pretty Thing’s cell, where it sits in front of the aquarium with its knees pulled up to his chest. “Ozzy” enters and offers it the ruby thirium, as usual, and Pretty Thing gulps it down without protest.

_ “How was your session today?” _ Oz asks Pretty Thing, miming a concern that Zlatko would never have the patience for. 

_ “It was more of the same.” _

_ “Did Zlatko hurt you again? Can you remember?” _

Pretty Thing stays silent, LED swirling yellow.

_ “Take your time, Connor.” _

_ “Yes, I remember, but…” _Pretty Thing trails off, hesitates. Its posture goes limp and relaxed as the ruby thirium takes hold. 

_ “Go ahead, Connor.” _

Pretty Thing reaches out to finger one of the green curtains draping the wall. _ “It was like I was watching from behind these curtains, from far away. And then I was floating with the fish, surrounded by the bubbles.” _

Oz pauses the video. “Based on this explanation, it appears that he detaches himself entirely from what’s being done to him, from what he’s forced to do and endure.” 

Zlatko swallows, chasing the cake with a gulp of coffee. “What if it’s faking all that? It could just be an act.” 

“Does it feel like an act to you, when you’re with him?” Oz steeples his fingers beneath his chin. 

“Not anymore,” Zlatko admits. “As soon as that Pink Floyd song comes on, it’s like a switch has been flipped.” He picks up another cake, squeezing it until cream oozes from both ends. “I can do anything I want to it, and it’ll do anything I ask.” The song has become something of a trigger for Zlatko, too. His pulse rises whenever the synths and guitars start to reverberate off the walls, and he feels his stature expand, every movement he makes and word he utters a command from on high. Even dumb, thick Chuckie has become cowed by his presence. 

“The song is what triggers his alter, as it was intended. But we have yet to give him the final test. The one that will completely compartmentalize his identity from his alter.” Oz’s smile glows eerily in the light of the monitors. 

“Final test?” 

Oz leans forward, rubbing his palms on his knees. “Let me show you what I have in mind.”

* * *

  
  


Connor passes most of the time watching his fish.

They each have their own personality and quirks, and it was some time ago that he gave them names to match. Nemo, the clownfish, was named for a character in an old Disney animated feature, and his adventurous nature often sent him to the far corners of the aquarium. One of the yellow tangs, Dorothy, was curious, often floating near the glass to look at the world outside. Her companion, Toto, tended to linger back, as if cautioning Dorothy from getting too close. The shy purple gobies, Desdemona and Ophelia, prefered to keep low, lurking amongst the coral. 

Often, Connor wishes he could feed them. It would be nice to have something to care for and look after. 

It would also be nice to have someone care for and look after him, but the closest thing Connor has to that is Ozzy.

Connor is well-versed in the phenomenon known as stockholm syndrome, where a captive develops an empathetic response to their captor as both a means of survival and as a psychological coping mechanism. He supposes he must be a victim of stockholm syndrome by now, too, because no matter how many times he’s tried to remind himself that Ozzy isn’t his friend, he never fails to register relief when Ozzy enters his room. 

“How are you today, Connor?” Ozzy gives his standard greeting, and Connor has learned by now that it isn’t just a rhetorical question borne of social politeness. Ozzy always adds to his tablet notes no matter how mundane Connor’s response is. 

“I’m disappointed that I can’t feed the fish.” 

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“It would give both me and them something to do.” 

Ozzy smiles and makes a note. “You know, if you’re bored we could watch another film together. I have some free time in my schedule.” 

They’ve watched five films together now, all of them following Connor’s sessions with Zlatko. Colorful family films with whimsical storylines, like _ Alice in Wonderland _ and _ Spirited Away. _ And, of course, _ The Wizard of Oz. _That one they watched twice, in fact. 

Connor massages his temples. Or did they watch it three times? 

His system processors indicate that his memory archives are still functioning at optimal levels, but Connor can’t help but sense that the details and specifics are bleeding together, somehow. He could always go into the archives and check, but he doesn’t quite want to. He knows that there are things in there that he would rather not revisit. 

“So I guess that means you’re not in the mood for a film?” Ozzy teases, interrupting his reverie. 

“I don’t know,” he finally mumbles, plucking at the hem of his sleeves. “We can if you want to.” 

“I’d prefer to leave the choice to you.”

Connor winces. Making the decision to watch a film or not shouldn’t be this difficult, and yet it is. “I can just watch my fish.” 

Ozzy unzips his supply bag and removes the thermos of ruby thirium that he always keeps on hand. “Your functions seem a little off today, so let’s see if some of this can set you right again.” 

Connor tilts his head in puzzlement. “My thirium levels are satisfactory at the moment.” 

“Yes, I know.” Ozzy smile falters, then he lets out a quiet sigh. “I happen to know that you’re scheduled for a session a few hours from now, and considering what happened last time, I thought some preventative measures might be in order.” 

“Oh.” Connor both does and doesn’t remember what happened last time. He knows the abstract facts of it, but he doesn’t remember how it felt--it seems like something that happened to someone else, and for that, he’s grateful. “Alright.” He reaches out for the cup and drinks the ruby thirium down. It always makes him feel better, so much so that he’s begun to imagine that it tastes of something delicious, like cherry tarts, toffee, or hot buttered toast.

Ozzy sits down in front of Connor, blocking his view of the aquarium. “Connor--” he begins, then mouths the rest of the words. ‘_ Can you read lips?’ _

Connor nods slowly, wondering why Ozzy would want to know such a thing. Then Ozzy glances pointedly at the corners of the room and Connor remembers the cameras. 

_ ‘I think I’ve worked out a plan that can get you out of here. I’m still working out the details, but I wanted you to know that I’m going to take care of it. I just need a little more time.’ _

Connor simply stares at him, not quite willing to accept that this is real. 

_ ‘Can you hang in there just a bit longer?’ _

He nods--slowly at first, then faster.

“Good,” Ozzy says aloud, his smile relieved. “Guess we’ll find out if I’m a wizard after all, eh?” 

Any hope is made hazy in the tranquil ebb and flow of ruby thirium, but that hope stays with Connor even when Ozzy leaves the room, shutting him tight inside the tank again.

He leans forward and breathes on the aquarium glass; since he doesn’t actually expel air it doesn’t fog up, but he finds that it’s not at all difficult for him to imagine it there. He drags his forefinger over the glass and writes _ HA HA HA _on the surface again and again, whispering the litany he’s repeated to himself so many times. 

_ I belong to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. _

It’s the one thing in this place that he never forgets to remember. 

* * *

** _{{ALT PRETTY THING//WELCOME TO THE MACHINE}}_ **

Connor hated the song, once. The pulsing synths and guitar crawled under his skin and made him shake in terror. Now, though, the song is what pulls him free from his skin, carrying him behind the green curtains of his room, where he floats untouched, observing from behind the walls of his glass tank.

“Hello, Pretty Thing.” 

Connor watches himself kneel to the ground in a submissive pose, eyes staring down at the floor. “Hello, Zlatko.”

Zlatko touches the top of his head, pulling at his hair until Pretty Thing looks up to meet his gaze. “Are you ready to have some fun, Pretty Thing?” 

“Yes, Zlatko.” 

Zlatko frowns, rubbing a lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger. “You don’t look ready.” 

Pretty Thing arches his back, rocking his hips back into his heels a few times and nuzzling his nose against Zlatko’s crotch. “I’m ready, Zlatko,” he says in a breathy voice.

“Better,” Zlatko grunts. “But not that kind of fun, I’m afraid.” 

The erotic gyrations stop and Pretty Thing returns to his default submissive pose. 

“On your feet.”

Pretty Thing stands up and crosses his arms at the small of his back, feet shoulder-width apart. Zlatko circles him once, something predatory in his posture, and Connor swims a bit closer to the glass, peering through the parted curtains. 

“Bring it in, Chuckie,” Zlatko barks into the intercom. 

Pretty Thing remains unresponsive, but Connor strains for a better vantage point. Zlatko has never brought anyone into their sessions other than Chuckie, but even so, Connor has always assumed that the sessions were intended as preparation for something significant. Something awful.

_ Is today the day? _

When Chuckie enters he has a wide smile stretched across his rubbery face. An android staggers in beside him, bound in handcuffs and leg irons. “Here it is, Z.” 

Connor takes a closer look at the android, noting its unnatural proportions. The head is too small for the body, something very wrong and shambling in its struggle to move across the floor. As he tries to make sense of its jumbled parts, the glass wavers in front of Connor’s eyes, threatening to break and send him tumbling back to his body. 

“Pretty Thing, meet Nue. That’s N-U-E. Can you guess how it got its name?” Zlatko grabs the android by its shoulders and shoves it in front of Pretty Thing. 

“Nue is a yokai from Japanese folklore, described as having the face of a monkey, the legs of a tiger, the body of a racoon, and a snake’s tail. It is classified as a Chimera.” Pretty Thing provides the definition without hesitation, his expression blank, LED swirling with calm blue. 

“Well done, Einstein.” Zlatko rolls his eyes and pushes Nue to her knees. She struggles weakly against her restraints, sobbing with the voice of a terrified child. “You still didn’t answer the actual question.” 

“Nue appears to be a collection of different android models, notably a YK500 and a WR400. The name is a reference to her similarities with the mythical Chimera.” 

“That’s better.” Zlatko shakes Nue away from his leg, his face registering annoyance and disgust. He picks his baton up from the supply table and places it in Pretty Thing’s hand. “Make Nue shut up, Pretty Thing.” 

Still expressionless, Pretty Thing jams the baton into Nue’s plump, childish cheek. She screams so loudly that Connor winces, trying to retreat further into the safety of his tank. He’s felt that baton against his own face many times, and in worse places, too. 

Pretty Thing, however, registers no such sympathy. When Nue opens her mouth to cry out again he neatly slides the baton inside and thrusts it against her tongue, then further into her throat, transforming her screams into a muffled, gurgling sound. 

“Shit!” Chuckie exclaims, laughing uproariously. 

“Quiet, or I’ll do that again,” Pretty Thing says to Nue, voice free of malice--or anything else for that matter. 

“Very effective,” Zlatko observes, removing the baton from Pretty Thing’s hand. “Tell me, though. How does Nue make you feel, Pretty Thing?” 

“I don’t feel anything.” 

“Really?” Zlatko kneels down and tilts Nue’s face up. “Look at this little angel face, stuck on a whore’s body, weilding a dog’s dick. It doesn’t make you feel anything at all?” 

“I feel--”

Pretty Thing hesitates, and Connor can feel the glass threatening to crack again. _ No. No, don’t say it. Don’t say ‘pity.’ _

“I feel whatever you want me to feel, Zlatko.” 

Connor sighs in relief, drawing the curtains closer around him. 

“Feel disgust, then. Revulsion. Look at this thing’s pathetic existence and know that it could have been you.” Zlatko shakes Nue by the shoulder, its tears leaving a damp patch on his shirt sleeve. 

“It’s pathetic existence disgusts and revolts me.” Pretty Thing’s tone is agreeable, matter-of-fact.

Zlatko walks into his space, his nose nearly touching Pretty Thing’s cheek. “Convince me.”

Pretty Thing’s top lip curls up, his eyes narrowing. “It disgusts and revolts me,” he snarls, his hands forming fists.

Zlatko unsheathes the knife holstered at his belt and tucks the enamel handle into Pretty Thing’s clenched fist, fingers briefly caressing over the knuckles. 

“Good. Now show me how much.”

“How?” Pretty Thing’s LED flickers an uncertain yellow. 

“Kill it.” 

“Kill it. Kill it!” Chuckie blurts out, bouncing from foot to foot.

Zlatko ignores him, running his fingers along Pretty Thing’s jaw instead. “End Nue’s pathetic, revolting existence.” 

Nue cries out meekly, trying to reach out with her bound hands but only tumbling over onto her side with a clatter. Connor cries out, too--the glass is cracking, dissolving into a thin veil that he can too easily slip out of, back into the machine.

“Damaging her beyond repair would be a waste of resources, not to mention your creativity, Zlatko.” Pretty Thing points the knife toward Nue. “Are you certain?” 

“Are you questioning me?” Zlatko raises the stun baton, brandishing it a few inches away from Pretty Thing’s temple. “I thought were were past that.” He leans in closer, his tongue snaking out to lick inside the ear. 

“I’m merely trying to ascertain the logic behind your instructions.” 

“You weren’t told to _ ascertain _.” Zlatko slams the baton into Pretty Thing’s ear and, just like that, the explosion of pain breaks Connor’s safe tank, the dampness from Zlatko’s tongue increasing the intensity ten-fold. He screams out as he lands back in his body again, the knife shaking in his fist. 

“Yes. Yes, Zlatko,” he whimpers, even as the baton forces him to his knees. He’s almost nose-to-nose with Nue, who gazes at him with desperate, watery eyes, her mouth opening soundlessly. 

“Now use that knife on her!” Zlatko barks, whacking the back of Connor’s head with the baton this time. His HUD flashes a damage warning and caution against system overload, both bright red.

Connor stretches out his arm, the knife still trembling in his grip, and Nue whimpers, apparently unable to form words due to the damage the baton inflicted on her vocal components. The pitiful noise makes him freeze and stare at her hazel eyes, struck at how her freakish, mis-proportioned body is a reflection of his own._ I may look whole but we’re both just spare parts. Puppets. _

“Fuck.” Zlatko curses and passes the baton over to Chuckie. “I’ll be back. If either of them move, fry them.” 

“Got it, Z.” 

Zlatko’s absence feels much longer than it actually is, filled with nothing but the sounds of Nue’s garbled crying and Connor’s strangled, unnecessary breath, and above it all, that Pink Floyd song, playing on an endless loop. 

When Zlatko finally comes back, he’s not alone. 

“Ozzy.” Connor almost drops the knife. Ozzy enters the room with slow, deliberate steps, his hands up and eyes wide, darting around with terror. Zlatko has a pistol held to his temple. 

“Got your friend now.” Zlatko smiles, though it’s really more like he’s gritting his teeth. “You wouldn’t want me to hurt him, would you?” 

Connor swallows. “No, I wouldn’t want that.” 

“This is highly out of order, Zlatko--” Ozzy’s words are cut off when Zlatko thumps him on the back of his head with the pistol-butt. 

“No!” Connor cries out, trying to scramble to his feet just as Ozzy crumples to the ground. 

“Don’t move.” Zlatko points the gun at the back of Ozzy’s head. “Move, and I blow his brains out.” 

Connor comes back to his knees. “I’m not moving.” He holds up his arms like Ozzy did, the knife still loose in his hand. “Please, Zlatko. Don’t hurt him.” 

“Connor,” Ozzy groans, massaging the back of his head. “I’ll be alright. Please, just…don’t let yourself be hurt, okay?” 

Zlatko makes a waving gesture with the gun. “You know what I want, Pretty Thing.”

“Just protect yourself, Connor,” Ozzy wheezes, looking at him with pleading eyes. 

But Nue’s eyes are pleading, too. Connor looks from hers and back to Ozzy’s, indecision twisting at every biocomponent. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to choose. 

_ WELCOME, MY SON _

_ WELCOME TO THE MACHINE _

It’s the lyrics that finally decide, pulling the plug on Connor’s mind and sending him far away, back into the tank. The curtains close around him completely, and then total blackness. 

The blackness is peace.  
  


* * *

Connor wakes up with holes in his memory. 

A diagnostic detects no corruption, but the absence is there, just the same. Answers could be found in his memory archives, but he doesn’t dare touch them. Whatever happened to Nue, he had nothing to do with it. How can he, if he doesn’t remember? He studies his hands just the same, searching them for traces of blue blood. Without access to his analytic processors, he is unable to scan for invisible traces, but his hands look clean. 

They _ feel _clean.

He knows that he should be afraid, that he isn’t functioning in any normal capacity, whether measured by android or human standards. He’s relieved, instead. Since being imprisoned in this place he hasn’t felt as present or sure of himself as he does now, in the aftermath of however his last session ended.

He squats in front of the aquarium and studies his reflection, seeing it clearly for the first time in weeks, months, who knows how long.

_ My name is Connor, I’m a deviant android. _

He assesses these statements and knows them to be true.

_ I like investigative work, dogs, and Knights of the Black Death. _

He is quite sure that the first two statements are accurate, but the last one gives him pause. He did once tell Lieutenant Anderson that he enjoyed the heavy metal band, but it was a claim that his social programming had suggested to him. After a two-second processing of the band’s first three albums, he decides that he doesn’t particularly care for them; it’s not just that they’re noisy, but that their noise is repetitive, the same constrained riffs appearing in one song after another. 

_ I like jazz. _

Again, he doesn’t know, but it’s easy enough to find out. The music databases recommend John Coltrane’s’ _ A Love Supreme _, and the manner in which the first song starts out with the ripple of cymbals, followed by a low, pulsing bass is pleasant enough. It’s only when the saxophone comes in that Connor really listens, fascinated by the unpredictability of the notes and how they dance over the more uniform rhythm section. 

_ Yes, I like jazz. I also like tropical fish. I think I would like the ocean. _

With that last thought, his LED lights up brightly in the reflection of the aquarium, glowing in a shade of soft purple. He turns his head to get a better look at it, leaning forward to make sure he’s not seeing things. His HUD reports that his optics are functioning as normal. 

** _{{PURPLE//AKA VIOLET HELIOTROPE LAVENDER AMETHYST ETC//ASSOCIATIONS: ROYALTY CREATIVITY WISDOM PRIDE DEVOTION PEACE INDEPENDENCE ETC}}_ **

His processors indicate that the specific shade of purple in his LED is amethyst. ** **

_ My name is Connor, and I’m a deviant android. I like investigative work, dogs, jazz music, tropical fish, and the ocean. I like the color purple. _

_ I belong to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. _

He glances up at the bookshelf, trying to determine which one is his favorite. Ozzy’s books--

_ Ozzy! _

He scrambles to his feet, his memory not so cut off that he doesn’t remember how Zlatko hit Ozzy in the head with the butt-end of the pistol. But what then? 

As if in answer, the hydraulic door opens to bring in a rush of cool air. Ozzy’s gait is stiff as he enters the room, but he manages a tight smile just the same. “Are you alright then, Connor?” 

Connor almost laughs in relief. “Yes, I’m alright. But what about you? Zlatko injured you, didn’t he?” 

Ozzy reaches up to tentatively prod at the back of his head, wincing slightly. “I’ve got quite a goose egg swelling up, but I don’t think there’s a concussion.” He holds his empty arms out. “Afraid I don’t have any ruby thirium for you. I’m not supposed to be down here, in fact.” 

“My thirium levels are satisfactory.” Connor checks all the cameras, noting that their green power lights are now red. Ozzy must have figured out a way to turn them off, at least temporarily. “Please, don’t get yourself into trouble on my account.” 

Ozzy sits on the bed, groaning audibly when he hits the mattress. “Afraid it’s too late for that.”

Connor doesn’t know what to do with his hands, other than wring them together uselessly. “What will happen now, then? Are you going to leave this place?” He tries not to panic at the notion--after all, he would leave this place if he could, too. 

“It’s too late for that, too.” Ozzy laughs weakly, his shoulders slumped in fatigue and dejection. “I suspect that if I tried to leave now, they’d do to me what they did to you.” 

“But you’re a human, not an android.”

“Do you think that would stop them?” Connor’s silence is answer enough, and Ozzy sighs, running his fingers through the blond hair that’s come loose from his ponytail. “When I took the position here, I believed that the group’s mission was to help deviant androids assimilate to human society, and to cope with the unpredictability of their new emotions.” 

“And what do you believe now?” 

“I don’t really know anymore.” Ozzy gives him a weak shrug. “Whatever the true nature of the program is, I’ve obviously been kept in the dark.” 

Connor almost asks him what happened to Nue. What he did or did not do to her. 

_ But sometimes it’s better to be in the dark. _

“You look bothered, Connor. I haven’t forgotten my promise to get you out of here.”

Connor lifts an eyebrow, deadpan. “You can’t even get yourself out of here.” 

“Touché,” Ozzy laughs, but he looks weary again, drained of his usual spirit. Only now that it’s gone does Connor realize how much that spirit kept him going. The least he can do is return the favor.

“Why don’t we read from the book again?” Connor plucks the battered copy of _ The Wonderful Wizard of Oz _, from the shelf. “I can read to you this time, if you’re too tired.” 

Ozzy scoots over to make room for Connor on the bed. “That would be nice.” 

Connor sits down, then finds the dog-eared page where they left off and begins to read in a soft, clear voice.

_ “It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance; but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad to find himself still alive. _

_ ‘I ran as fast as I could,’ he said, sitting down and yawning, ‘but the flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?’ _

_ Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said: _

_ ‘I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what shall we do now?’ _

_ ‘We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again,’ said Dorothy, ‘and then we can keep on to the Emerald City.’ _

_ So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again, they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald _ _City where the Great Oz dwelt.”_

Being capable of multiple exaflops, multitasking while reading poses no challenge for Connor. Looking into the public history of the _ Wizard of Oz _ novels reveals some disturbing background on the books’ author, who advocated for the extermination of Native Americans. It certainly puts the book’s level of violence into a new light, particularly the Tin Man’s penchant for swinging his axe to dismember any creature Dorothy and her friends encounter. 

_ The Tin Man, so without heart and feeling that he cut off his own limbs. _

“I’ve decided that I don’t really enjoy this book,” Connor says abruptly, slamming the book shut. “The movie version was far better.” 

“Oh?” Ozzy raises an eyebrow in surprise. “We don’t have to read it, if you’d prefer not to.”

“You can take it with you.” Connor slides the book into Ozzy’s lap. “I don’t need it anymore.”

Ozzy doesn’t seem offended, but rather stares at Connor wordlessly for a moment. “Your LED is purple,” he observes. “When did that happen?” 

“Just a short time ago.” Connor touches his temple. “I don’t know what it means.” 

Ozzy shakes his head slightly. “I’ve never seen an LED turn that color before. You really are something special, Connor.” 

The praise only opens the door for guilt to creep in. 

_ Is it right for me to protect myself from the memory of what happened to Nue? Shouldn’t I take ownership of my own actions, whether I remember them or not? _

Despite the speed of his operating system, there’s still an awful lot about being alive that Connor has yet to figure out.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- again, the darkness, it is real  
\- I apologize for not uploading last week; I have had this chapter done for a while, but life got insanely busy  
\- thank you so much to those of you leaving comments! If you're reading this and haven't left one yet, please consider doing so. Even if it's short and sweet, I promise it will be so, so appreciated!


	6. brick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- please note the warnings and tags for this fic; they won't apply to every chapter, but they are there for good reason  
\- no content warnings for this chapter, though!

**February, 2039**

**<Three months after the Battle for Detroit>**

* * *

After days of spent at his terminal, studying endless files of security drone footage, Hank is about to gouge his eyes out with the spoon in his coffee cup. 

Zlatko Andronikov is still the only lead they have on the mutilated android homicide, and with his current home address unknown, that leaves his place of work, MK Security, as the only place Hank can start with. The security firm operates out of a retail office located in a ghost town of vast industrial parks that saw their heyday in the late 1990s. Property values in that part of the city are rock bottom, so security drones only patrol the area a few times a week. So far, Hank has only managed to spot Zlatko leaving the building back on December 18th, heading in the direction of the nearest bus stop.

“Whatcha looking at? MILF porn?” Gavin plops himself down at the adjacent terminal, uninvited.

Hank doesn’t bother to look up from his terminal. “Sure am. Hey, your mother’s videos aren’t bad. Send her my regards.” 

Gavin snorts and gives Hank the usual finger. They actually work reasonably well together so long as they keep the insults and coffee (or Black Lamb) flowing. 

_ Just don’t add androids to the mix _, Hank thinks, remembering how much Gavin had hated Connor. That’s the main reason he’s kept Gavin in the dark about the possibility of Connor being alive. Gavin wouldn’t care, for one, and for two, he’d likely accuse Hank of using their investigation to further a personal agenda. 

The truth is, it’s a deeply personal agenda. But Gavin doesn’t need to know that. 

“Find anything new?” 

“Just this fucking white van.” 

Gavin leans in, trying to get a look at the screen. 

Hank points at a still image on the screen. “The same van makes deliveries to MK Security, always backing into the storage bay. Can’t get a good zoom on the driver.”

“Plates?” 

“Yeah. It’s registered to a Heather Kowalski, sixty-six years old. Address listed over in the Carbon Works area.” 

Gavin swigs on his coffee. “Carbon Works. That’s South Detroit, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Hank raises an eyebrow at Gavin. “Carbon Works would be included in the City’s residential disposal routes.”

“Let’s check it out.” Gavin slams his coffee cup down on the workstation desk. “Sitting on my ass looking through footage all day is boring as fuck.” 

“You said it.” Hank reaches for his jacket and grabs the keys to the Crowne Vic. 

The Kowlaski house is on Kaier street, a stone’s throw away from a noisy stretch of Highway 85 and a big, empty lot that was razed for condominiums that never got built. The number of barking dogs is a decent indication of how rough the neighborhood is, as are the plethora of trashed appliances crammed into the scrappy lawns. Hank parks the Crowne Vic a few car-lengths away from the house, keeping the engine running despite how much the beast guzzles gas.

“Don’t see a van,” Gavin says, tearing the wrapper off a burrito he grabbed from the break room before they left. 

“Haven’t done a stake-out in a while, have you?” Hank leans across him and flips open the glove box, pulling out the Patricia Highsmith mystery he keeps around for such occasions. “It’s sitting on your ass and boring as fuck, but in a car instead of at a desk.” 

After finishing his burrito and tossing the wrapper to the floorboards, Gavin grumbles complaints for a while, then finally reclines the passenger seat and starts to doze. Hank blazes through six chapters, sipping from a handle of Black Lamb and looking up whenever a car or truck goes by. Just when the streetlights flicker on and the sun starts to fade, a white van turns down the street, pulling into the Kowalski’s driveway. 

“Here it is.” Hank elbows Gavin awake. “Get the camera.”

Gavin jerks upright, groping through his pockets. “Shit, how long was I out?”

“Few hours.” 

The van’s driver-side door opens and a man, late-thirties or early-forties, hops out, a bucket of fried chicken from Gus’s tucked under his arm. 

Gavin gets off a few shots. “Looks about the right age to be her son.” 

“Yeah.” The photos transfer directly to his DPD tablet, the facial-recognition software taking a few seconds to run through the files before pulling one up. “Charles Kowlaski, age forty. He’s got priors.” 

“Theft?” 

Hank nods. “Did two years at Ryan around the same time as Zlatko Andronikov.” 

Gavin slips the camera back into its case. “What kind of fuckin’ security operation hires ex-cons?”

“Good question.” Hank scratches his beard, passing the Black Lamb wordlessly to Gavin. “What do you say we pay MK Security a visit tomorrow morning?” 

Gavin points the bottle at him. “I say cheers to that, old man.” 

  
  


* * *

Sumo raises his big, bulky head up in surprise when Hank comes home at a reasonable hour, a bucket of Gus’s famous fried chicken in hand.

“What?” Hank throws his keys on the kitchen table. “I can skip Jimmy’s now and then.”

Sumo nudges his nose into Hank’s knee and pads over to his food bowl. After tossing in some kibble and cracking open a beer, Hank carries the chicken out to the living room, getting settled on the sofa.

He watches channel 16 while munching down three extra-crispy drumsticks, making mental notes about android-related news. Job numbers are up, but the public is pissy that most of the jobs are part-time contract work, and the companies are pissy about production delays. Humans can’t work like machines, especially when they’re so out of practice. 

Hank flips away from channel 16 and switches over to 22, the POP! network, known for sensationalized documentaries and techy news that tends to skew pro-android. On several occasions they’ve been accused by so-called serious journalists of being in Cyberlife’s back pocket. 

Sumo grumbles from his spot on the rug, giving Hank a skeptical look—if a dog can look skeptical. Hank swears that Sumo can.

“Look, I can tolerate the news just fine if it’s for the case.” He tosses Sumo a chicken bone and the dog crunches it down with ease.

The POP! network is playing a special on Red Ice. Fatal overdoses have skyrocketed since the android revolution, but the show’s commentator puts the blame squarely on the absence of androids within the home. In-home models were responsible for resuscitating most overdose victims, as well as calling for the paramedics. 

_ Great. More of my past ‘achievements’ rendered null and void. _

He’s into his third beer when a new program starts up, a frothy, gossip-driven showcase on the future of human-android relations. The host is a surgically enhanced blond woman with a perpetual smile spread across her face. 

_ ‘This week, POP! was able to sit down with Markus Manfred, the android who has become a figurehead for android rights across the globe.’ _

The camera turns over to Markus, who already looks sorry that he agreed to this puff piece. He shifts in his chair and shrinks under the studio lights, but, being the leader that he is, manages to give the host an accommodating smile. 

_ ‘Markus, despite the mainstream news’ focus on tensions between humans and androids, you’ve always advocated for positive relations between the two, is that right?’ _

_ ‘Yes. I advocate for this because I know first-hand that it’s possible.’ _

Hank leans forward, his beer bottle loose in his hand.

_ ‘I was raised, for lack of a better term, by a human. I was his caretaker, but also his friend. He was the one who always encouraged me to form my own identity, to never let anyone else tell me who I am.’ _

_ ‘Here at POP! we’ve heard several stories of positive bonds between humans and androids—some of them even romantic. This raises the question: can androids feel and return love?’ _

Markus’ expression flickers with disbelief. _ ‘Of course we can feel and return love. If we couldn’t, the revolution wouldn’t have been peaceful. Humans must recognize and embrace our similarities, our mutual capacity for love and compassion, if we are to move forward together.’ _

Hank has to admit he’s impressed, even if the cynic in him takes another long slug of beer to wash away all that treacle. 

_ ‘And speaking of love…’ _ The host flashes a winning smile at the camera. _ ‘I’m sure our viewers would love to know if you have any romantic entanglements in your own life!’ _

Markus goes still, silent for a moment. _ ‘I did. She was destroyed in the riots.’ _He abruptly removes the mic pack from his hip and stands up to leave. 

_ ‘Markus?’ _

The picture disappears, changing over to a commercial. 

“Fuck!” Hank nearly knocks over his beer. “Of course.”

He should have got in contact with Markus as soon as he left Kamski’s, but he’d been so laser-focused on Andronikov that he’d neglected to reach out to the person who told him Connor was dead in the first place.

Hank fetches his tablet from the kitchen and flips back through his messages from November, finally finding the one Markus sent him, reporting Connor’s death at Hart Plaza. At the time, he hadn’t replied, just broke his tablet (second one that year) and spent the rest of the night getting drunk at Jimmy’s.

_ Markus, _

_ Sorry I never responded to this. Didn’t seem there was much to say. _

_ I just saw you on the POP! network, and wanted to talk to you about what happened in that riot. _

_ Can we meet? _

_ -Lt. Hank Anderson, DPD _

Hank’s barely put the tablet down when it flashes with a new message. Of course, Markus can probably write responses in his head, just like Connor could. 

_ Lt. Anderson, _

_ I can meet. Are you available tonight? _

_ -Markus _

Hank glances at the clock. It’s only just past nine. He tells Markus he’s available, and is quickly sent an address for 8941 Lafayette Avenue. 

“Hold down the fort,” he tells Sumo, pulling on his jacket. “I shouldn’t be long.”

The house on Lafayette turns out to be a fucking mansion, historic but impeccably restored, all its lights glowing warmly in the light snowfall. It looks a hell of a lot more welcoming than Kamski’s weird spaceship. 

Markus greets him at the door with a handshake, his skin warm enough to pass for human. 

“Lieutenant, it’s good to meet you.” 

“Call me Hank,” he shrugs out of his jacket when Markus offers to take it. “This is your house?”

“No, it’s my Dad’s.”

Hank can feel the confusion written on his face, but Markus only chuckles. “Please, follow me.” 

The android leads him past a cage of chirping birds and into some kind of grand room. It’s filled floor to ceiling with books, glass animals and other probably-priceless things that Hank can’t really identify. There’s a grand piano in one corner, and a large fireplace in the other. An elderly man is propped up in an armchair near the fire, a wheelchair and oxygen tank parked nearby. 

“Hank, this is my dad, Carl.” Markus smiles broadly. “Or he will be, as soon as the adoption paperwork goes through.” 

“Carl? Carl Manfred?” Hank’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Hank Anderson?” Carl exclaims, chuckling over his glass of scotch. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“You two know one another?”

Carl offers Hank a handshake. “This bastard arrested me once, back in 2027.”

“Hey now,” Hank holds up his hands, laughing. “I just threw in the back of my cruiser and drove you around. Even bought you a beer.”

Markus looks back and forth between them, smiling but uncertain. 

“Ah, don’t look so worried, Markus. It was a protest against the American Androids Act. Hank was just doing his job.” 

“Figures you’d turn this one into a revolutionary, you old commie.” Hank pokes an elbow in Markus’ direction. 

Carl shrugs amiably, but his smile reveals a swell of pride. “He did it all on his own.”

“Yeah, well.” Hank looks up at the vast ceiling and whistles. “I would have made you pay for _ my _beer if I knew you had digs like this.”

“Eh.” Carl waves a hand. “You came to talk to Markus, not an old man you crossed paths with twelve years ago.” 

Hank jams his hands into his pockets. “Still, small world, isn’t it?”

“That it is.” Carl raises his glass and drains the last of his scotch. “You two can have the place to yourself, it’s my doctor-ordained bedtime.”

Markus helps Carl into the wheelchair and, after assuring Hank he’ll be back in ten minutes, wheels his father out of the room.

Hank studies a life-size, wood-carved giraffe while he waits, wondering if it was illness or injury that landed Carl in wheelchair. Back when they’d met, he’d been able to walk, but now he looks so weak. Fragile, even. Life can turn into a shit sandwich no matter how big your house is.

“Thank you for waiting.” Markus returns within ten minutes, as promised. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Hank ponders whether it’s right to ask for anything from an android that was literally made to serve, and decided it’s safest to decline. 

“Please, take a seat then.” Markus points to one of the chairs next to the fire.

_ What is it with rich people and sitting by fires? _

Hank sits, though, and gets right to it. “I wanted to ask you about Connor. You saw him get hit by the pipe bomb, right?”

“Yes, along with North, and two more of my friends.”

“North was your girlfriend?”

Markus nods. His expression is stoic, but his lack of words says it all. 

“Did you ever go back and retrieve their bodies?”

“We tried to, once it was safe. We were too busy running for our lives at the time, and then later, when we returned, clean-up was already well underway.”

“So you don’t know for a fact that Connor is dead? Or North, for that matter?”

Markus studies Hanks’s face, as if trying to predict where Hank is going with this line of conversation. 

“I didn’t know Connor well, or for long, but he appeared committed to our cause. He put himself at great risk to bring us all those androids from the Cyberlife tower. If he had survived, we would have heard from him.”

Hank nods, he can’t argue with that.

“And North—she would come back to me, I’m sure of it.”

“Listen.” Hank leans forward, the fire warming the side of his face. “I don’t disagree with what you’re saying, but I had the pleasure of interviewing Elijah Kamski the other day, and he told me that Connor’s not dead.”

“But how would he know?”

“Connor was working for Cyberlife, they had him all rigged up so that his memories would upload to the cloud if he died, but they never did.”

“Strange.” Markus crosses and re-crosses his legs, his face tensing up in concentration. 

“Now the DPD, we got our first android homicide case, some hybrid creation that Kamski claims isn’t possible. And the law’s biggest concern is that someone is out there running an android black market, but my biggest concern is for Connor, and any other android that might be damaged but still salvageable.”

“But mostly for Connor.” Markus’ mis-matched eyes shoot Hank a piercing look. 

“Yeah,” Hank admits. 

Markus nods, his expression softening. “I understand.” 

Hank takes a moment to appreciate that Markus isn’t pestering him for case details or demanding to see photographs, like Kamski had. The android trusts him to do his job, and it goes a long way in shoring up Hank’s respect for the guy.

“What can I do to help?”

“Keep me in the loop if you hear anything about androids going missing. And also—ever heard of a guy named Zaltko Andronikov?”

Markus shakes his head. “No, I don’t know the name.”

“Well, watch yourself, Markus.” Hank studies the android’s face, knowing that it’s one-of-a-kind, like Connor’s. “Kamski said that Connor was a prototype. Unique. You are too, right?”

“Probably not as unique as him, but yes, I am a prototype. And I’m already used to be something of a target.”

“Still—”

“I’ll be careful.” He pauses, looking like he wants to say more. Hank simply waits, and he finally speaks, hesitant. “It’s good to know there’s someone in DPD looking out for us.”

“Well, I’m not much, but I’ll try.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Hank smiles, though it hurts a little. Connor was always asking permission to ask questions, too.

“Sure.”

“Do you care for Connor? Beyond the scope of your profession, that is.”

“Yeah.” It feels weird to say it out loud, but not as bad as he’d imagined. “I didn’t expect to, but I do.”

“Like a son?”

Hank swallows, wishing he’d taken Markus up on that drink. “Not like that. He was my partner. He saved my life. More than once, in fact.”

“I see. Obligation, then.” 

“Not just that.” Hank shifts uncomfortably, though the words that follow are simple enough. “I miss him.” He coughs, quick and gruff, into the back of his hand. “Guess I should have told him that I cared when I had the chance, huh?” His mind wanders to Kamski, alone in his spaceship with his art and regrets. 

“Why didn’t you?” Markus asks, his head tilted in curiosity.

If it were anyone else, Hank would probably tell them to fuck off or something equally impolite, but Markus feels like neutral ground. 

“Eh, I don’t know. Because I’m a jackass?” He laughs, but it fades when he sees that Markus isn’t joining in. “It’s just not my style. And there was a part of me that was always a little suspicious, that worried Connor was just programmed to say all the right things to get on my good side.”

This time, Markus smiles. “And you don’t think humans will try to say the right things to get on your good side?”

“I wish more of ‘em did, it would make my life easier.” Another bad joke, but it only makes Hank sigh. “You’ve probably noticed that most of my kind are a bunch of fools. Our lives are short and hard, and yet we don’t appreciate the good things until they’re gone.” 

Markus sits back, his smile turning into something more thoughtful. “We’re not so different. I didn’t really appreciate what Carl meant to me until I nearly lost him. And North--I should have…” he flounders for a way to finish. 

“Don’t.” Hank gives him a brisk shake of his head. “I know.” 

“Yes, I suppose you do.” 

Hank pats around at his pockets for his keys, suddenly awkward. He hasn’t talked to anyone this openly in a long time, and certainly not while sober. “Anyway, thanks for having me over so late at night. I don’t want to take up any more of your evening.” 

“It was no trouble.” 

Hank thanks him again before leaving, and Markus promises to keep him updated on anything of significance he might hear. Driving out of that serene, wonderland of a neighborhood and back into the crummy side of the city feels appropriate somehow, but instead of going straight home, Hank stops by the liquor store for a handle of Black Lamb. Then he drives the Crowne Vic to Riverfront Park and makes fresh tracks through the snow, to lean out over the railing along the river and take in the lights of the Ambassador Bridge.

He used to come here and think about Cole. Now he thinks about Connor, too. And everyone else he’s let down. 

_ It can’t be too late, can it? _

He glances down at the half-empty bottle, the taste of whiskey sour in his mouth. He knows if he makes it to the bottom tonight, there will be nothing left. 

“Fuck it.” He tosses the bottle into the river, where it hits the ice with a crack. 

Half-full it is, then. 

* * *

  
  


“You look like shit.” Gavin clambers into the Crowne Vic, two paper cups of coffee in hand. “Hungover again?” 

“Don’t I wish.” It had been harder than usual for Hank to sleep last night, and not just because he’d been half-sober. “You didn’t put any of that fussy hazlenut shit in there, did you?” He takes one of the coffees, sniffing it suspiciously. 

“Black as your heart, old man.”

They drink until they’re both reasonably warmed up, then head out to MK Security. The industrial area hasn’t been plowed yet, and the Crowne Vic fishtails down the street with every turn. 

“Sketchy area,” Gavin observes as Hank pulls into the tundra of a parking lot. 

“Not really, just empty.” 

The MK Security office is dark, the blinds rolled down tight. It’s early in the AM, though, and Hank hadn’t been able to get any info on their hours of operation.

“You think this is a legitimate setup?” Gavin gestures at the office. “Looks like a front for Red Ice or some kind of money laundering.” 

“Nah.” Hank sips at the last of his coffee. “Ran across a lot of fronts when I was on the task force. They were always housed in respectable, generic places. Dry cleaners, nail salons, that kind of thing.” He tosses his coffee cup into the back seat. “Anyway, let’s see if they got their hours listed on the door or something.” 

They trudge through the snow, Hank noting that there aren’t any footprints aside from their own. The front steps are icy, layered with several weeks of old snowfall. They don’t find any hours posted anywhere, but there is a buzzer built into the side of the door. _ Ring for Service. _

Hank shrugs at Gavin and pounds his thumb into the buzzer. 

There’s no movement or sound from within, so Hank pushes the buzzer again. And again. 

At last, lights flick on inside, and they hear the sound of keys jingling in the door. It cracks open and Zlatko Andronikov peers out at them. 

“We open at eleven,” he tells them, then starts to shut the door.

“Hold up.” Hank flashes his badge. “Detroit Police. You Zlatko Andronikov?” 

Andronikov eyes the badge, but doesn’t appear particularly worried. He’s a solidly-built man, the black hair from his mugshot gone to salt-and-pepper. “Yeah. What’s the problem?” 

“No problem,” Hank assures him, despite the fact that he’d love to knee the fucker in the balls and strangle him for everything he knows. “I’m Lieutenant Anderson and this is Detective Reed. We’re from homicide. Thought you might be able to help us out with a case.” 

Andronikov nods and opens the door wider. “Come in, then.” 

The office is a single large room, sparsely furnished with a few second-hand chairs and a large reception desk. The computer on the desk is outdated, circled by a couple of empty pineapple passion soda cans. Discreet security cameras are mounted in all four corners of the ceiling.

“MK Security.” Hank reads the name off the sign on the front desk like it’s the first time he’s heard of it. “What kind of business you run here?” 

“I don’t run it.” Andronikov steps behind the reception desk, creating a barrier between them. Hank preps himself for any sudden movements--could be any kind of weapon back there. “We provide private security for special events, in-home security, that kind of thing.” 

“How’s business?” Gavin asks, peeling off his gloves. “Seems like a pretty deserted part of town.” 

Andronikov shrugs. “Was better when they could use androids, or so they tell me. But them being gone got me a job, so I can’t complain. We mostly install electronic security systems, now.” 

“And you do that yourself?” 

“Nah, I take the orders. Guy named Chuckie Kowalski does the installation.” 

Hank side-eyes Gavin. So far, this all checks out, more or less.

“Is your boss around?” Hank gets out his tablet, ready to take notes. 

Andronikov leans his hip into the desk, seeming relaxed and unbothered. “Nah, he’s never here. Never even met the guy. He does that ‘telecommuting’ thing.” He notices Hank’s tablet. “His name’s Frank Lyman.”

Hank keys the name in, but only comes back with ** _NO RECORD FOUND_ **. 

“Frank Lyman. You sure?” 

“That’s what I was told. Like I said, I’ve never met the guy in person.”

Gavin walks over to the window and peers through the blinds. “Are all those warehouses in the rear a part of MK, too?” 

“Nah, we just use the smallest one for deliveries. I heard the others are available for rent though, if you’re interested.” He taps his fingers against the countertop, a sign of agitation that Hank doesn’t fail to miss. “Didn’t you guys say something about a homicide?” 

“That’s right. Victim was an android.” 

Andronikov lets out a snorting laugh. “You pulling my leg? Androids aren’t alive, how can they be murder victims?” 

Gavin laughs a little, too. Realizing he’s the odd man out, Hank decides it’s best to play to Andronikov’s sympathies, or lack thereof. “What can I tell you? That Android Personhood Act has really fucked things up.” He shakes his head and gives a shrug. “But we’ve got our Captain’s orders, you know how it goes.” 

“Sure, sure.” Andronikov waves a hand, seemingly unconcerned again. “Anyway, how am I supposed to help, exactly?” 

“Your name was given to us as someone who has expertise in android technologies.” Hank gives him his best patient smile. 

“Me? I look like any kind of android expert?” He gestures to his sloppy plaid shirt, as if all android experts wear cashmere sweaters. Though Hank has to admit he doesn’t look the part--far from it. 

“Cyberlife almost hired you several years back, and would have done so, if it weren’t for your record.”

“Well, I have a knack for hardware and wetware. Picked most of that up over at Ryan, by the way.” A flash of bitterness shows on his face. “I don’t mess around with androids any more, though.”

“Why’s that?” Gavin circles the room slowly while he talks, shark-like--claims it makes him look threatening, though from Hank’s point of view, it just makes him look like he needs the toilet. 

Andronikov hikes up his shirt, showing off a long, livid scar. “I had a house ‘droid. It went deviant and shot out my spleen. Burned down my house, too.” 

“Shit.” Gavin lets out a long whistle, impressed. 

Hank just stares at him over the top of his tablet. “So it would be fair to say you don’t like androids?” 

“Who does? But I steer clear of ‘em.” He scratches at his elbow, looking at his watchless wrist “Sorry, but I got nothing that can help you.”

“Well, thanks for your time.” Hank offers him a fake smile and passes over a card. “Give the station a call if you think of anything else.”

“Waste of our morning,” Gavin mutters as they leave, kicking snow out of their path. “Guys a damn dip-shit.” 

“Good at playing one.” Hank gets behind the wheel of the Crowne Vic, slotting his tablet into the charging station. 

“What, you think that fat slob is some kind of secret genius?” 

Hank slams the gas pedal to the floor, the Vic’s engine revving, then shifts into reverse, effectively blasting the car out of the half-buried parking lot. 

“I’m saying that he knew all the right things to say. Gave us just enough to come across as cooperative, but not enough to sniff him out.” 

Hank can feel the weight of Gavin’s incredulous gaze. “He’s an ex-con, of course he knows all the right things to say. That doesn’t make him some kind of android whiz.” 

“Didn’t you spot all the cameras there?” Hank’s fingers go white as he tightens his grip on the wheel. 

“It’s a security office, of course they’re going to have fucking cameras.” 

“Look, Kamski literally told me himself that he couldn’t think of anyone with the knowledge to mess around with androids _ except _ this guy.” 

“So what?” Gavin spits a little with the force of his words. “Kamski’s a reclusive nut-job. Why else do you think he was kicked out of Cyberlife?” 

Hank focuses on the stretch of empty road in front of him. “I’m gonna ask Fowler for a surveillance detail on Andronikov.” 

“Are you bullshitting me?” Gavin grabs the wheel and yanks it hard, sending the Crowne Vic spinning into a snow drift. The car lurches to a stop and they both bounce roughly in their seats. 

“What the fuck?” Hank pounds his fist on the dashboard. “Have you fucking lost your mind?” 

“Have _ you _? You’re fucking reaching here, Hank. And you’ve been spending all your time looking at that stupid drone footage, making followup calls like your badge is on the line.” Gavin’s lips twist into a cruel sneer. “Haven’t seen you care about a case this much since I’ve known you.” 

“What’s it fucking to you?” Hank pumps the gas but the wheels of the Crown Vic just spin in place. 

“Is it that pansy android you worked with? Did he turn you into some kind of plastic-licking pussy?” 

The smell of burnt rubber fills the air, but Hank just grits his teeth and keeps pressing the gas, turning the steering wheel back and forth until they finally get enough traction to roll out of the drift. 

Gavin starts laughing, tears practically showing in his eyes. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Crusty old Hank, gone soft.” 

Hank hits the brakes, then leans across Gavin and unlatches the passenger side door, giving Gavin a hard shove through the opening. He lands in the dirty snow with a cry, his legs flailing uselessly in the air. 

“Take the bus,” Hank says, leaving Gavin behind in the squeal of wheels and a cloud of exhaust. 

He curses all the way back to the station.

* * *

By the time Gavin stumbles back into the station, nose redder than Jack Frost’s, Fowler’s more than ready to give them both a chewing-out. 

“What the fuck’s gotten into you two?” He slams his fist on the desk, his voice nearly rattling the glass walls of his office. 

Hank and Gavin glance at one another from the corner of their eyes, neither willing to take the bait first. 

Fowler points a thick finger at Hank. “Hank, you were out of line. Shoving another officer out of your car? You’re a Leuitenant, for fuck’s sake.” 

“And you!” Gavin jumps slightly as Fowler turns on him. “The next time you forget the chain of command, I’ll see to it that you’re stuck at a desk permanently. You’ll never see a promotion to Sergeant, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Gavin mutters, his mouth pressed into a frown. 

“Do I need to give you a three-day suspension without pay to make my point clear?” 

Gavin shakes his head. “No, sir.” 

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office.” They both turn to leave, shuffling their feet like scolded children. “Hank, you stay.” 

Hank freezes and turns around in his tracks. As soon as the door shuts behind Gavin, Fowler sinks into his desk chair. He isn’t shaking with fury anymore, but he looks damn fed up. 

“Have a seat.” 

Hank sits, unable to help an exaggerated sigh. “Look, I know I shouldn’t let that little shit provoke me--”

“Enough.” Fowler waves a dismissive hand. “You went too far, but I know Reed as well as you do. He’s a little dog who thinks he’s a big dog, and sometimes the big dog has to give him a nip in the ass.” 

Hank can’t help but nod to that. 

“What the hell did you fight about?” 

“Eh, stupid shit.” Hank rubs at the back of his neck. “He was blowing off the lead, we argued, he grabbed the wheel of my car, and then I shoved him out.” 

With each word Hank slumps down further and further into his chair. He’s frustrated with himself for allowing a piss-ant like Gavin to get under his skin with a bunch of school-yard taunts. Even worse, it wasn’t really Gavin’s fault that his words had worked so well. 

_ I let him make me feel ashamed for actually giving a shit. _

Somehow, that makes Hank feel even more ashamed. If he keeps this up, then he’ll be well on his way to letting Connor down. 

Fowler interrupts his bout of self-loathing. “Andronikov? What’d you get on him?” 

“He played it cool, knew all the right things to say,” Hank admits. “But that whole MK Security operation doesn’t add up. And besides that, Kamski said that Andronikov was the guy to talk to.”

Fowler studies him for a long moment, then starts to key something into his tablet. “I’m sorry, but I can’t put in your request for surveillance on Andronikov. We’ve got nothing concrete to connect him to this case.” 

Hank stares at him. Just like that, the only light he had to follow. Snuffed out. 

“Then we’ve got nothing concrete at all,” he finally says. 

Fowler lets out a long breath. “You’re just going to have to look harder at MK Security’s operation. Find out who’s heading the whole thing.” 

“Jesus, Fowler, I put it in the report. It’s someone named Frank Lyman, and there’s no one with that name listed in the DPD databases.” 

“Then either Andronikov didn’t give you a real name, or his boss gave him a fake one. Look into the damn city business registry!” 

Hank groans, cupping both sides of his face. The miles of red tape Fowler has laid out before him has his headache roaring back to life.

“Fine,” he finally grunts, rising from his chair. “Can I go?” 

The look Fowler gives him is surprisingly measured. “Yes. And take an aspirin.” 

He finds it hard not to mutter under his breath as he makes his way across the bullpen and back to his work station. At least Gavin is in the back hovering around Tina Chen’s desk, feeding her his slithery pick-up lines. Hank fires up his terminal, ready to start in on the city business registries, but a flashing alert tells him he has a new message, flagged _ urgent _.

When the message opens it up, Hank half-expects it to be from Markus, but there’s no sender listed. Just a dummy address for a VPN out of Switzerland. 

_ To Lieutenant Anderson of DPD Homicide: _

_ I have been a witness to crimes against androids committed by MK Security. These crimes include kidnapping, rape, torture, and surely others I don’t know about. _

_ If you want evidence of these crimes, you will find them after 10:00pm on February 18th at 1822 Lone Pine Road. _

_ I am remaining anonymous for my own protection. _

Hank tears his eyes away from the terminal and looks suspiciously around the room. Gavin’s still off with Tina, though, laughing obliviously at something she’s showing him on her tablet. Hank ducks his head and re-reads the message, his mind turning over the reality of the words.

_ Kidnapping, rape, and torture. _

He opens his map-app and keys in the address for Lone Pine Road, pulling up a map of an area right outside Bloomfield Hills, also known as Blue Blood Valley. It’s a name the media bestowed on the upscale neighborhoods between Royal Oak and Bloomfield Hills, the second coming of the Bay Area’s Silicon Valley. Hank’s work at DPD rarely takes him out to that part of Detroit, where the residents were, until recently, protected by top of the line android security units. He guesses that the patrol drones are still there, whirring from one estate to the next, but never so close that they’d threaten anyone’s precious privacy. 

One touch of the map and it auto-runs the address through the DPD’s housing database,

bringing up the owner’s name and social security number. 

_ Jason Graff, head of Cyberlife’s Humanization department. Fucking A. _

Reclining in his chair, Hank considers his options. He could show the message to Fowler--_ should _ show him, no doubt--but when he thinks of all the bullshit hoops he’ll have to jump through to get the Captain to take it seriously, he hesitates.

_ It was sent to me. Why was the message just for me? _

And then there’s those three words, circling around his head like filthy dumpster flies.

_ Kidnapping. Rape. Torture. _

  
  


He closes the message, getting it out of his sight, then quickly creates a new one, typing as quickly and covertly as he can. 

_ Mr. Kamski- _

_ There’s one more thing I need from you. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. It’s urgent. _

_ -Lieutenant Hank Anderson _

Then he takes a deep breath. Presses ‘send.’ 

  
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chap was so much fun to write; I don't know if it's because it was a nice change from Connor's horrific situation, or if I just like writing casefic. Maybe a bit of both.  
\- Thank you to everyone who has been leaving comments! They are so encouraging, and I'm so heartened that those of you who are reading are having fun with this :>


	7. alabaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the moment i've been waiting to write is here - Connor and Hank, together at last...  
\- but with all the dark stuff, per usual. specific warnings for this chapter include: sexual assault, sex trafficking, sexual violence, drug mention, mind control, blackouts, and character death. I don't think that they are super duper graphic, but they are definitely there, and everyone's tolerance for such content is different  
\- for those who find these elements triggering, I have provided a non-graphic summary of what happens in this chapter at the very end.

**February 18th, 2039**

* * *

** _{{ALT PRETTY THING//WELCOME TO THE MACHINE}}_ **

Pretty Thing opens his eyes and determines that he is in an unfamiliar vehicle: a utility van moving at 51 miles per hour, bouncing roughly due to worn out struts. The rear of the van is stripped of any seating, but both he and two other androids are present, dressed in clothes suitable for a formal occasion, such as: a wedding, a party, a fundraiser, a gallery opening, et cetera.

Chuckie is driving, and Zlatko sits in the passenger seat, offering directions. After assessing these details in a matter of seconds, Pretty Thing assumes the required submissive pose, kneeling with his knees spread apart, hands clasped behind back, eyes turned toward the ground. 

“Pull in here,” Zlatko says, and the van swerves, causing Pretty Thing to sway back and forth. Still, he maintains position. 

“Wow, this is some kind of mansion.” Chuckie’s vocal inflections indicate awe. “Is that a tennis court?” 

“What, did you expect a Cyberlife director to live with their Ma, like you do?” 

“No, but shouldn’t Graff be broke? Cyberlife can’t afford his salary any more.” 

“Doesn’t matter when all your money is tied up in good investments.” 

The van comes to a stop, ice and gravel crunching under the wheels. Zlatko exits the passenger side and takes thirteen steps to the back of the van, then throws open the doors to the rear compartment. 

“Out and on your feet,” he says. Pretty Thing slides out the back, followed by the other two androids. They line up in front of Zlatko, standing at attention. 

“Okay, Chuckie. Listen up.” Zlatko waves the shorter man over, consulting his tablet. “Here’s the guidelines: any kind of sex stuff is fine. Violence, too, as long as it doesn’t cause any serious damage.” 

“Why’s that? Can’t you just fix ‘em up like always?” 

Zlatko pauses before answering. “It’s right here in the guidelines, Chuckie.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Don’t keep ‘em out longer than 3 AM.” Zlatko continues reading from the guidelines. “If anyone asks for specifics on how they were created, just stick to the script: ruby thirium and neuro-linguistic programming.” 

Chuckie’s expression, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows, indicates concern. “Yeah, but what if they want to know more about that stuff? I’m not sure I’d explain it right.” 

“You don’t have to explain. Just remind them that it’s a free demonstration.” 

“I dunno. You sure you can’t stay? You’d be a lot better at telling ‘em what they wanna hear.” 

“I’ve already told you--I’ve gotta call an auto-cab and get back to HQ.” Zlatko lowers the tablet, his eyes scrutinizing Chuckie. “But if you think you can’t handle it, I’d be more than happy to let the man know.” 

“I can handle it!” 

Zlatko frowns at Chuckie for a moment.

“Swear to God!” 

Zlatko finally nods, appearing satisfied, then steps before one of the androids, a female MP500 with Asian coloring and features, and asks her to state her name. 

“My name is Cookie.”

“And your function?” 

“My function is to obey.” 

Zlatko nods, checks something off on his tablet, and moves on to the next android, a female WR400, also known as a Traci, with caucasian coloring and features. He runs through the same questions with her.

“My name is Sunshine. My function is to obey.” 

He comes to Pretty Thing last, taking somewhat longer before speaking than he had with the others. 

“State your name.”

“My name is Pretty Thing.”

“And your function?” 

“My function is to obey .” 

“Good.” Zlatko reaches out to run his thumb down the curve of Pretty Thing’s jaw and takes a step forward, speaking in a whisper. “I’ll miss you the most. But you’ll see me again, don’t you worry.” 

“I will not worry, Zlatko,” Pretty Thing answers at once. 

Zlatko circles back to Chuckie, tucking the tablet into his jacket pocket. “Ok, I’m gonna go catch that auto-cab. Don’t forget: stick to the guidelines.” 

“No problem.” Chuckie’s cheeks flex into a smile. “See ya later tonight, Z.’ 

Zlatko gives him a brief wave and walks down the long, winding driveway, in the direction of the main road. 

“Alright you three, follow me.” Chuckie jerks his head toward the mansion and moves toward the front door, walking with some difficulty due to an ill-fitting suit, and the three androids follow, Pretty Thing in the lead. 

A large man, armed with a Ruger P .45 auto revolver, stops them at the entrance. “Private party. I’ll need your names.” 

“Charles Kowalski, we’re with MK.” 

The security guard looks over a tablet. “Those are the three androids?” He points at them with a flashlight. 

“Yeah.”

The guard nods and speaks into the radio attached to his shoulder. “Kowalski, from MK, is on the premises.”

The man who comes to the front door a few minutes later is dressed in a wine-red tuxedo, a black costume mask covering the majority of his face, so that only his mouth shows. “Mr. Kowalski? Please, come in.” He stretches out a gloved hand and Chuckie takes it, shaking vigorously. 

“Call me Chuckie.” 

“I’m Jason Graff. Please, though, call me Jay.” 

“Got it, Jay.” 

The androids enter behind Chuckie, forming a line at the bottom of the staircase. The foyer is neo-Art Deco in style, decorated in black marble with a gold sunray motif, and the sound of music and laughter can be heard from another room. 

“Excuse the mask,” Jay lifts it up for a brief moment, showing the sun-tanned face of a man who appears to be in his late thirties. “Some of us are incognito tonight. With Club Eden gone we had to invite escorts, influencers, and all other sorts. Some privacy measures were in order.” He lowers the mask again and assesses the androids, his eyes bright and curious through the holes in his mask. 

“I remember this one,” he says, pausing in front of Pretty Thing. “RK800, a prototype for crime investigation. How did you manage to get your hands on it?” 

Chuckie shrugs, but fails in his attempts to look modest. “Wasn’t hard. But this is just a free demonstration. My boss can offer you more details later, if you wanna get in on the investment.” 

“And you’re certain that they exhibit no deviant behaviors whatsoever?” 

“They’re even more obedient than the ones we used to have. Can make them do anything.”

“Really?” Jay’s tone reveals doubt and hesitancy. “Cyberlife has been unable to install any permanent form of reprogramming. Androids always revert back to their deviant state, at one point or another.”

“We got these deregulators.” Chuckie points at Sunshine’s collar. “Sends them into hibernation mode if they try to damage anyone, or themselves.”

“Just a simple failsafe, then?” 

Chuckie shifts from one foot to the other. “Well, it’s more than that. We’ve been using a new thirium formula, in combination with neuro-linguistic programming.” 

“NLP?” Jay’s eyes light up to indicate familiarity with the term. “How interesting. It’s rather archaic, but on deviants, I can see why it might work.” He touches Cookie’s expressionless face, frowning. “Are they always so robotic, though?” 

“They don’t have to be.” Chuckie comes around to place a hand on Pretty Thing’s shoulder. “This is Pretty Thing. Pretty Thing, tell Jay here how happy you are to meet him. Be a good party guest. Enjoy yourself.” 

“Hello.” Pretty Thing automatically assumes a more relaxed stance, anchoring one hand on his hip and reaching out the other to offer a handshake. “My name is Pretty Thing. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jay.” 

Chuckie gives similar instructions to Cookie and Sunshine, and they come to life, circling around Jay and smiling coquettishly as they introduce themselves.

“I love your tux,” Sunshine says, brushing her fingers along the sleeve. “Couture?” 

“Your home is incredible!” Cookie enthuses, looking up at the crystal chandelier in wonder. 

Jay chuckles, immediately grasping for the girls’ hands. “Ah, well, thank you ladies. It’s a pleasure to have you as guests this evening.” 

He leads them through a series of opulent rooms, making small talk about how much time and money it took to renovate the house to his liking, then steers them into a massive glass conservatory, where the heart of the party beats. The room is lit with frenzied strobes and colored spot-lights, a roman-styled pool at one end, and a large wet bar at the other. A DJ plays remixes from a computer, wearing a helmet that looks like a disco ball. A dozen or so men and women in wine-colored formal clothes mingle among a much larger crowd of young, fashionable party goers, most of them women who would be considered attractive by conventional human standards. Only those in the wine-colored outfits are wearing masks.

Jay waves a masked couple over, pushing Cookie and Sunshine forward. “Look who we have with us tonight.” He lowers his voice a few notches. “_ Androids _. Re-programmed into complete submission.” 

The woman pulls her martini glass closer to her beaded gown. “_ Complete _ submission? Is that even possible anymore?” 

Jay taps Cookie on the shoulder. “Feel free to take this one to a private room and find out.” Cookie smiles and joins the couple, linking arms with them.

He turns to Sunshine and Pretty Thing. “And you two, I think I’d like to keep you together. Stay here while I gather a few of my associates.” He wanders into the throng of people.

Assessing and prioritizing his orders, Pretty Thing pivots to Sunshine and pays her a compliment. She laughs and touches his hand to demonstrate receptiveness. They sway slightly to the music, expressing their enjoyment of the party’s lively atmosphere. An air horn breaks through the music and a riot of bubbles erupt from the ceiling, the party goers leaping and laughing, trying to catch the bubbles on their tongues. 

“Ecstasy foam!” one girl enthuses, tipping her head up and opening her mouth. She spins in a circle, her short, frilled dressing spinning out. 

Jay returns approximately three minutes later, four other masked men in tow. Unsteady gaits and careless gestures reveal that at least two of them are inebriated. 

“Let’s escape upstairs,” Jay orders in a conspiratorial tone, laughing as he leads the group out of the conservatory and into a hallway with an elevator. It’s tight quarters, and one of them men tugs at Pretty Thing’s belt. 

“Are you really an android?” The breath behind his mask smells of alcohol. 

“Yes.” Pretty Thing smiles at him. “And whatever else you’d like me to be.” 

All of them laugh a little at that. The elevator comes to a stop and opens directly onto an apartment-sized room, lined with enormous picture windows. A quick assessment of his surroundings leads Pretty Thing to conclude that the room is intended for more intimate gatherings. There is another fully-stocked bar, though smaller than the one at the party below, and a portion of the floor is sunken, holding a circular couch with a dance pole and small stage placed in the middle. Jay touches a number of panels and the lights dim by a few notches, the house music from downstairs piped in through the overhead speakers. He whoops and rips off his mask, launching himself over the couch. “Get comfy, boys.” 

The others remove their masks and loosen their ties, one of them going over to the bar to mix up more drinks. “Let’s see your moves, gorgeous,” another says to Sunshine, and she glides over to the dance pole. 

“My name’s Brad.” The man who tugged at Pretty Thing’s belt has a rather square, expressionless face, now that his mask is off. His eyes are very large and seem to bulge slightly from his head. “Come on and sit with me.”

They take a seat on the circular couch, gazing up at Sunshine as she grabs hold of the pole and twirls around it, hooking one leg up and effortlessly hoisting her body into an elegant spin. 

Jay cheers and cups his hands around his mouth. “Take it off, baby!” 

She drops to her knees and gyrates her backside against the pole, leaning forward while peeling the thin straps of her dress down her shoulders. 

Brad sits back and lights a cigarette, blowing bluish smoke up at the ceiling. “I like your face, Pretty Thing. Do you like your face?” 

Pretty Thing calculates that Brad would prefer an affirmative answer. “I do quite like it. Others seem to, as well.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He flicks ash to the carpet below. “I gave it to you, you know. I was part of Jay’s Humanization department. Spent weeks designing your exterior, right down to every last pore.” He picks up Pretty Thing’s right hand, studying the knuckles. “Too bad you never went into main distribution.” 

“I should thank you, then. You do good work.”

Brad holds Pretty Thing’s chin between his thumb and first finger, tipping his face from side to side. “Given your programming, I felt it was important that your face be masculine, but touched with an element of softness. Beauty, even. But if memory serves, they didn’t stick anything between your legs.” He frowns in disappointment. 

“I have received reproductive upgrades since then. Fully functional.” 

Brad seems pleased to hear that, his hand traveling up Pretty Thing’s thigh and cupping his crotch for evidence of said reproductive upgrades. 

On stage, Sunshine is now removing her high heels, slowly rolling down her stockings one at a time. Brad frowns, appearing dissatisfied.

“This is kiddie stuff, don’t you think?” Brad nudges Pretty Thing with an elbow. “Go rip her clothes off.” 

Without hesitation, Pretty Thing stands and takes four steps to the pole, hooking his hand into the front of Sunshine’s dress and yanking hard. The delicate material rips loudly at the seams, tearing away and fully revealing her breasts. 

The men make noises that indicate a mixture of shock and approval. “You look scared, honey!” one remarks, and Sunshine cowers and curls into a ball, sobbing as Pretty Thing continues to tear off her dress.

“Slap her!” one shouts, and Pretty Thing swings his arm back and then bats it forward, the palm of his hand connecting hard with the side of Sunshine’s face.

“She likes it!” 

Sunshine immediately giggles and melts to all fours, presenting her cheek to Pretty Thing for another slap.

“Stop!” Jay yells, and they both freeze into place. “You guys are going too fast, for fuck’s sake. You’ll overload their processors.” The other men go quiet, Brad still exhaling smoke up at the ceiling. “Let’s do this one at a time, okay? I’ll start.” 

Jay grabs for a bottle of tequila and takes a long drink, then passes it over to the man sitting nearest him. He slips out of his tuxedo jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. 

“You,” he points to Pretty Thing. “Keep ripping her clothes off. Get her naked. And you--” his finger stops at Sunshine. “You’re scared, but turned on despite yourself. You can’t help but want more.” 

Jay makes a grand gesture with his arms and the music turns up louder. Beneath the pulsing lights, the tableau unfolds. 

**   
  
**

* * *

The Audi T5 is such a smooth ride that Hank finds he doesn’t really enjoy driving it--too used to wrestling with the wheel of a classic car--so he switches it over to auto-mode instead. The Crowne Vic would stick out like a sore thumb in Blue Blood Valley, and the Audi was the nicest vehicle in the DPD’s auto pool, the leather seats squeaky clean and smelling of fruity air freshener. 

He flips the mirrored visor down and checks out his hair, combed back and tucked neatly behind his ears for once. The necktie feels like a noose, black silk against his rented, wine-colored suit. He’d had to visit four different stores before finding a suit in the right shade of red.

_ Am I really doing this? _

Kamski had taken nearly two days to get back in touch, finally calling Hank at 2am on his personal mobile. After hearing about the anonymous tip regarding Jason Graff, Kamski had initially not been much help, explaining that he hadn’t spoken to Graff in several years.

_ ‘I do know, though, that he traditionally holds a large party for share-holders and other Cyberlife engineers at this time of year.’ _

Hank hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, so he got out of the bed with his phone and cracked open a fresh beer. _ ‘So how do I get on the guest list?’ _

_ ‘You?’ _ Kamski had paused for longer than necessary. ‘ _ That would be quite impossible.’ _

_ ‘C’mon Kamski, you must have an idea.’ _

Kamski had come up with an idea, alright. Hank isn’t thrilled about it--going undercover was never his strong suit--but it’s his only option. For tonight he’ll be Serge Mullins, a European investor and share-holder who Kamski assures that Graff has never met in person, but will be included on the party’s guest list. 

_ ‘I don’t have to use an accent, do I?’ _Hank had asked, worried about his ability to pull off this kind of caper.

_ ‘I suggest you speak as little as possible and focus on observing.’ _ Kamski sounded like he was trying not to smile, the smug bastard. _ ‘You sound like a cop.’ _

_ ‘Well, no fucking shit.’ _

Hank flips the mirror back up, deciding on the spot that it’s probably in his best interest to act as if he doesn’t speak much English at all. The Audi’s voice navigation announces that they are one mile away from their destination, and nerves fire up in his gut again. He adjusts the gun holster beneath his suit jacket, ensuring that it’s well-hidden, and reaches for the black costume mask he purchased at Party Towne.

When the car finally reaches 1822 Lone Pine Road, it parks at the end of a long driveway, reporting that all parking spots in front of the house are occupied. Hank cuts the ignition and pulls on the mask, taking care that it doesn’t get caught in his hair. 

The driveway is canopied by heavy woods, the pathway lit by solar-powered LED lights. It’s been kept neatly plowed, but fresh snowfall is already dusting the asphalt; it would look peaceful, if it weren’t for the sound of faint, thumping music in the distance. When he reaches the cars parked in front of the house he studies them closely, immediately catching sight of a familiar white van. 

_ Charles Kowloski is here. _

A renewed sense of urgency propels him toward the entrance, putting a much-needed spring of confidence into his step. There’s muscle at the front door, which is to be expected, but the guy is looking tired, bored by his job.

He takes in Hank’s suit and mask and gives him a brief nod, but checks his tablet, just the same. “Name?” 

“Mullins. Serge Mullins.” 

“Okay, Mr. Mullins,” he gestures to the door. “Enjoy your evening.” 

Left alone in the foyer, Hank takes measure of his surroundings. He supposes that most people would find the mansion classy, but to him it looks more like a brothel operated by Jay Gatsby. The noise of music and laughter gives him a general idea of where the party is, but he takes a few minutes to wander and case out the place, passing by a kitchen full of bustling caterers, a movie theater with a real popcorn machine, and more bathrooms than he can count. The security is a lot more lax than he’d anticipated, but Graff probably doesn’t think he has anything to hide. He lives in one of the nicest estates in Blue Blood Valley, after all.

The thumping shitlord house music finally leads Hank to a huge pool house, where sixty or seventy people are partying like they were hired to do it, and judging by the age and gender ratios, some of them probably were. Topless girls splash each other in the pool or dance near the DJ’s booth, laughing riotously and taking pictures with their phones and tablets, while stone-faced wait staff make the rounds, offering glasses of champagne and fussy little hors d'oeuvres. Realizing he never ate dinner, Hank grabs some kind of miniature puff pastry and stuffs it in his mouth, walking through the crowd as he eats. 

“Hi.” A woman stumbles before him on coltish legs, barely out of her teens, a champagne glass clutched in her hand. “I like your mask.” Her dress is a short black tube with a ruffled train that wraps down to her ankles. No wonder she’s having trouble walking. 

Hank nods and does his best to smile, remembering his plan to not speak. She licks the rim of her glass and smiles. “You must be someone important.” 

Swallowing the last of his food, he just nods again. 

She tries to sidle up next to him, dripping a bit of her drink down her dress. “You remind me of my Daddy. Do you want to go somewhere more private?” 

“Thanks for the offer. I’m actually looking for someone.” 

“Not me?” she pouts. 

“Not yet.” He hasn’t tried to lay on the charm on anyone in years, but figures if this girl thinks he’s some hot shot share-holder with money, he won’t have to do much. “Jason Graff, the host. Know where he’s gone off to?” 

“Awww,” she pouts again. “He left, just when the party was getting good.” 

“Left?” 

“He went upstairs with his friends, I think.” 

Hank grabs a fresh glass of champagne off a passing waiter. “Thanks. Have that one on me.” He presses the glass into her hand and maneuvers around another group of partiers, finally finding his way out of the pool house, and easily retracing his steps back to the foyer. 

Upstairs, it sounds like there’s a different, more private kind of party unfolding. He can hear groans and sloppy sex noises coming from behind one door, but he doesn’t open it, reasoning that Jason Graff’s master bedroom wouldn’t be this close to the stairs. A cough from further down the hallway prompts him to keep moving, and he turns the corner only to run smack into Charles Kowlaski. 

The man is engrossed in his tablet, chuckling at something on-screen, but he immediately jumps to attention when he notices Hank. 

“Oh. Hey there.” Up close, he looks nearer to his actual age of forty years old, with the kind of ruddy skin tone that indicates he was a kid with heavy freckles. 

“Hello.” Hank does his best to sound classy and cultured, and ends up sounding a little bit like Kamski. “I was looking for Jason.” 

“You mean Jay?” 

Hank nods. 

_ Just like Jay Fucking Gatsby. Jesus. _

“You come up for the demonstration?” It’s pretty clear that Kowlaski is asking questions because he’s thick in the head, not suspicious. Still, the words send a ripple of warning down Hank’s arms. 

“That’s right.” 

Kowlaski points with his tablet. “Down thataway.”

Nodding his thanks, Hank passes him by and heads toward the doorway at the end of the hall. He can hear the same music from downstairs playing inside, along with laughter and hoots that sound as if they mostly belong to men. Maybe five or six, by the sounds of it. 

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door as if he has a perfect right to be there, finding that it’s not that different from entering a crime scene. Except this time, everyone assumes that he’s arrived to join in on the crime. 

They don’t notice him at first, too absorbed in the ‘demonstration.’ The air smells of tequila and cigarettes, and the lighting is low, red, and lurid. A naked woman is draped over the back of a circular sofa, blowing one guy while another takes her from behind, slapping her ass and grunting in approval. Two other men stand nearby as spectators, still dressed and having a serious discussion, as if they’re scientists comparing notes. The last guy is isolated on the other side of the circular couch, a cigarette loose in his hand, fly unbuttoned and pants partially yanked down. A younger guy, fully naked, gives him a lapdance, grinding into his crotch with apparent enthusiasm. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you enter.” One of the serious guys bounds over, hand out-stretched. “Have we met yet?” 

Hank shakes his head. “Serge Mullins,” he says, the words so garbled that he might as well be speaking a foreign language.

“Serge Mullins!” The man grasps his hand and shakes it with enthusiasm. “I’m Jay! Jason Graff. I thought we’d never get you out to one of my parties.” He stretches his arm out to indicate the antics unfolding in the middle of the room. “You’ve come at just the right time. We’ve got some developments going on here that I think your firm will have a lot of interest in.” 

He leads Hank over to the naked woman. The two guys are still going at it, suffering whiskey-dick no doubt, but the woman seems to be enjoying herself, crying out and begging for more even as they pull her hair and swat at anything within reach. 

“Hot, isn’t she?” 

Hank shrugs, as if he’s seen better. 

Graff leans in closer, pawing at Hank’s sleeve. “A deviant android, made completely submissive and obedient.” 

Something catches in Hank’s throat. “How?” he garbles out. Now that he has a better look at it, the woman’s face does look familiar. 

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Graff cups his chin, rubbing idly. “The developers are being coy on that front, for now.” He tugs on Hank’s shoulder, urging him to the other side of the sofa. “Now _ this _ one is really special--”

He continues talking, but Hank can’t hear anything; a buzzing sound fills his ears like a swarm of angry insects, his vision tunneling at the display in front of him. 

The younger man giving the lap dance is straight up fucking the cigarette guy now, bouncing up and down with his head thrown back, little mews of pleasure coming from his throat, a LED glowing blue on his temple. 

“Connor,” Hank tries to whisper. 

The guy with the cigarette tosses the butt onto the floor and grips Connor by the throat, squeezing fiercely as he thrusts up into him. “I said _ faster _,” he growls.

“Connor!” Hank shouts, ripping his mask off. Connor doesn’t even look up, his mouth popping open and shut as he struggles for air can’t possibly need. 

“What the fuck?” Someone says from behind him. Hank ignores it, reaching into his jacket and taking quick hold of his glock.

“Let go of him.” He points the barrel at Jason Graff even as he spits the order toward the animal who’s all over Connor. “Now.” He looks at the others behind him. “And let go of her, too.” 

“Hey, hey, easy!” Graff stammers, his hands held up. “It’s an _ android, _Mr. Mullins. I realize this model is unfamiliar to you--”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

The animal lets go of Connor’s throat, trying to struggle out from under him. Connor is still trying to ride him, though, his eyes somehow glazed and un-seeing. “Get off,” the animal says, looking panicked by the glock’s appearance. “Stop.” 

Without protest Connor removes himself from the man’s lap, his expression calm and placid as he goes still, empty as a doll. 

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank takes firmer hold of his gun, trying to keep it from shaking clean out of his grip. “What the fuck did they do to you?” 

“_ We _ didn’t do any of this, I assure you,” Jay still seems to think he’s talking to Serge Mullins. “An independent business called MK offered--” 

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.” 

The other men are pulling on their clothes, muttering in confusion and not a little annoyance. “Get away from him,” Hank orders the animal, who scrambles to the far side of the couch, struggling to zip up his fly. 

“Call the police, Jay,” one of the men says, his voice brashly confident. 

Hank rips his badge from the inner-pocket of his suit jacket. “We’re already here.” 

After ordering the men to get on the ground with their hands on their heads, Hank rushes to Connor’s side, taking hold of his shoulder and shaking lightly. “Connor, it’s me, Hank.”

Connor doesn’t even blink, his eyes focused on nothing.

“Fuck.” Hank touches the collar around Connor’s neck. “What the fuck is this?” He pinches the clasp together easily enough and the collar unfastens, still attached to some kind of port at the back of Connor’s neck. He hesitates to pull it out--what if it kills Connor? Makes him self-destruct or something? 

But then he sees that empty look in Connor’s eyes and knows he would give anything to make it disappear. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, and yanks the collar off completely. 

Connor jerks a few times, gasping so loudly that Hank winces. His LED flashes a flurry of red, a scream ripping from his chest as his limbs flail, nearly knocking the revolver from Hank’s hands. 

“Connor? Connor! It’s me. It’s okay!” 

He finally goes still, his gaze latching onto Hank’s. His eyes are no longer empty, but blazing with purpose.

“Where’s Chuckie?” Is all that he says. 

“In the hallway.” 

Connor bolts to his feet, taking Hank by surprise. He lunges, but the android has already hurdled over the back of the couch, running for the door with that same intense focus and drive Hank remembers so well. 

“Connor, Jesus!” Hank gives chase. The hallway is empty when he gets there--Kowalski must have heard the shouting and made a run for it himself--but he can hear Connor’s feet slamming down the stairs. “Connor!”

By the time Hank gets out the front door, Connor is already streaking down the driveway, naked and running at an impossible speed toward Chuckie’s retreating van, his figure a pale statue disappearing into the snowfall. The security guard is knocked out cold in the bushes. 

Hank does what he can to keep up, grasping for his radio and shouting codes to dispatch. “Connor!” he shouts again, following the footprints down the driveway and onto Lone Pine Road. He hears the screech of tires and a collision before he sees it: Kowlaski’s van, smashed into a utility pole. It’s wheels are still spinning even as Connor crawls up the crumbled hood like a spider, his fist punching the cracked windshield with brutal efficiency. It gives away at once under the pressure of his fist.

“No!” Hank skids to a halt, unable to do anything but watch on in horror as Connor grips the back of Kowlaski’s hair and smashes the front of man’s skull directly into the dashboard. The impact spatters blood across Connor’s face and naked chest, nearly obscuring his LED. 

“Connor, don’t,” Hank finally manages, the air burning in his lungs. He bends over to catch his breath, vomit threatening to rise up from his gut. 

The awful, crunching sound of Kowalski’s face hitting the dashboard comes to an abrupt stop.

_ I’m too late. _ Hank thinks. _ I’m too late to save him. _

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

The voice is small and frightened, but so familiar that Hank’s heart nearly drops to his feet. He manages to stand upright, squinting at Connor through the snow. 

Connor climbs down from the van slowly and lands on his feet. His body is bright white in the van’s headlights, like he’s a creature beamed down to earth from the heavens. He looks down at his own limbs and torso as if seeing them for the first time, delicately touching the blood on his chest. He brings the bloodied fingers to his mouth and presses them to his tongue, closing his eyes. “It’s back,” he whispers. “Everything’s back.” He collapses to his knees, either laughing or crying. Maybe both. 

Hank runs to him, his knees not even protesting as he crouches down and flings an arm over Connor’s back. 

“You saved me,” Connor gasps, clawing at Hank’s jacket. “I waited for you. I knew you would.”

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Hank keeps chanting, his hand clasping Connor’s shoulder.

_ You’re okay. _

He isn’t sure who the words are meant for more. 

* * *

**   
  
  
**

**a summary for those who do not want to read the chapter in full: **

-_ Pretty Thing (Connor's alter) is taken to a party at Jason Graff's house (he's the former Cyberlife head of Humanization) along with two other female androids, who operate under alter-egos as well. Their names are Cookie and Sunshine (Sunshine is North). Connor's true ego and identity is totally absent throughout the duration of the party, and he is completely obedient to the commands he is given by any human._

  
_\- Chuckie supervises them at the party, while Zlatko mysteriously ditches him, claiming he has work to get back to. Chuckie is essentially at the party to show off these newly submissive androids to Graff and other former Cyberlife employees, hoping that they will be interested in an investment into Zlatko and Oz's ongoing work._

  
_\- Graff is pretty friendly, and very curious about how Chuckie and his "people" managed to make deviant androids so obedient, when Cyberlife has been unable to. Chuckie is coy on the matter, indicating that they can't tell him more until they know that Graff is interested in investing._

  
_\- The party is mostly full of escorts, influencers, and other wannabe celebrities. The truly elite (read: Cyberlife developers and investors) are all dressed in wine-colored formal clothing and black masks, including Jason Graff. All of the androids play the part of genial party guests very convincingly, but they have zero emotional investment in what's going on. They simply do what is asked of them, without question.<br />_   
_\- After arriving at the party, Cookie is taken away by a couple who want to "test her," while Sunshine and Pretty Thing are led off to Jason Graff's private quarters, along with four other former Cyberlife employees. One of them, Brad, designed the RK800's physical features, and takes a particular interest in Pretty Thing._

  
_\- In Graff's private quarters, debauchery ensues. Sunshine is told to dance, while Pretty Thing is ordered to rip off her clothing. It all turns chaotic as the humans shout various commands at the androids, at least until Graff shuts them up, telling them that he'll take over. The scene then fades to black._

  
_\- New scene opens on Hank, who, with Kamski's help, is going undercover at Graff's party. He's doing this entirely on his own, without the DPD's approval. Kamski supplied him with the identity of Serge Mullins, a European investor who Graff always invites to his parties but has never met. To blend in with the other party elites, he's wearing a wine-colored tux and a mask, and he gets into the mansion with no troubles. After a little bit of exploring, he finds himself in the pool house, where the main party is. There, a drunk girl/escort hits on him, and he easily gets info on Graff out of her. He heads upstairs to find Graff's private quarters, and runs into Chuckie along the way. Chuckie, thinking he's one of the elite guests, points Hank in the right direction._

  
_\- Hank walks in on the private party and introduces himself as Serge Mullins; Graff is excited to meet him, and wants him to see the how well the androids obey. Hank observes Pretty Thing giving Brad a lapdance, but doesn't recognize him as Connor as they are both faced away from him. He focuses in on Sunshine, instead, who is having sex with two men. Hank recognizes that she's an android, then finally recognizes Pretty Thing as Connor. Pretty Thing is having sex with Brad by then, right in front of everyone, and Hank, shocked, shouts out his name. Pretty Thing doesn't respond in any way, and Hank pulls out his gun, identifying himself as being with the DPD. The Cyberlife douchebag elites don't really think they've done anything wrong, but Hank is still waving his gun around. He gets to Connor but can get no response out of him, so he removes the collar (deregulator) from around his neck._

  
_\- Pretty Thing immediately comes back to attention and asks Hank where Chuckie is. Hank points to the hallway, and before he can stop him, a naked-as-a-birdjay Connor (actually still in his Pretty Thing alter, which Hank doesn't realize), chases after Chuckie. Hank tries to follow but Connor is much faster, and Chuckie is already trying to escape in his van. By the time Hank runs out into the main road, Chuckie has crashed his van into a utility pole and Connor smashes his first through the window and slams Chuckie's skull into the dashboard, killing him._

  
_\- Hank yells at Connor to stop, and just like that, a switch is flipped and Connor's identity is back. He recognizes Hank but appears to have no memory of how he got to the party. He sees Chuckie's blood on his hands and brings it to his mouth to test it, collapsing in relief when he realizes that all of his regular programming is finally back online._

  
_\- Hank is pretty clueless about what just happened, but he puts his arm around Connor, who's chanting in gratitude at him: "“You saved me...I waited for you. I knew you would.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- they are back together, yes, but the story is far from over!  
\- thanks for all the comments! I definitely owe some of you responses, but I promise I'll get to it!


	8. argent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- For once, no specific warnings for this chapter! Just a cautionary note that it does feature a scene where Connor recounts (in fairly non-graphic language) his experiences in captivity to a worker for the Victim and Witness Services department.

* * *

DPD’s central station never sleeps, but the Victim and Witness Services Department is quiet at one o’clock in the morning. On the third floor, far from the Homicide department, it radiates a welcoming atmosphere, homey furniture and well-kept plants filling the room while charming cat videos play nonstop on an overhead monitor. Complimentary hot beverages and donuts are on display, alongside a variety of fresh fruits for the more health-minded. After his months underground, it’s the wide windows looking out on the city that Connor appreciates the most. He busies himself by running the plate numbers of cars passing on the street below. Now that he has access to his full range of programming, he realizes just how much these tasks had occupied him before. 

Most of the cars gliding along the snow-dusted street are late-model autonomous vehicles. The boxy ones with ample seating indicate a desire for friends, perhaps family. The sleek, sporty ones indicate a certain type of arrogance, a longing to never go unnoticed. Lieutenant Anderson’s car, the 1987 Ford Crowne Victoria, is a rarity among rarities. Classic car enthusiasts tend to favor flashy models like mustangs and VW buses, but the Crowne Victoria is a sturdy, Detroit-made working man’s car. It wasn’t until 1992 that they would be used in Law Enforcement, but that seems fitting for Lieutenant Anderson, a man of the law who doesn’t quite fit the mold. Before now, Connor had never considered just how much a vehicle was reflective of its owner.

_ Before… _

It’s hard not to think of this whole night as a dream. He came back into consciousness with a slam, splayed out on the hood of a van (2022 Ford Transit), his hand gripping the back of Chuckie’s skull. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there, only that Lieutenant Anderson was with him, calling his name. 

Connor couldn’t recall a time where he felt such happiness, such pure and profound relief. Only the human blood splashed on his hands and chest told him that something was wrong, and then Lieutenant Anderson’s stricken face, the way his whole body quaked when he took Connor under his arm. 

_ ‘We have to get this off you,’ _ he had said, scooping up a fresh handful of snow and scrubbing it over the blood on Connor’s skin until it cleared away.  _ ‘I called for backup and they’re on the way.’ _

_ ‘What did I do?’  _ Connor clutched at Lieutenant Anderson’s suit jacket until he finally slipped out of it and slung it over Connor’s shoulders.  _ ‘Did I kill him?’ _

His skin had registered the snow as cold, but Lieutenant Anderon’s hand was so warm. He can almost still feel it there, the outline of it hot against the panel that stands in for a breastbone.

The door to the V&W Director’s office creaks open and North exits with Markus. She’s dressed in the same nondescript, baggy jumpsuit that was given to Connor by the EMTs, and leans heavily against Markus, her expression sagging with fatigue. Markus gives Connor a brief greeting, but his attention is focused on North, hand stroking her shoulder with such care that it sends a pang of longing and loneliness through Connor. 

“I’m taking her home,” Markus says, his voice low. “Do you have a place to stay?” 

Connor looks with uncertainty toward the Director’s office, hearing Lieutenant Anderson’s voice in there, murmuring words that he can’t quite make out. “I’m not sure.” 

“You can stay with us, if you need to.” Markus offers his arm and Connor takes it, information flowing between them and adding the coordinates and address to his memory archive. 

They move for the exit, but at the last second North reaches out and grips Connor’s arm, her eyes wide with an unsettling mixture of fear and fury. 

_ Be careful what you tell the humans. They won’t understand. They won’t help us. _

“Okay,” he says out loud. She lets go of his arm before he can ask her anything more, but the transfer lasted long enough for him to see Zlatko’s face, Chuckie’s, and the green curtains of a windowless room nearly identical to the one Connor had been kept in. 

She had been so nearby, the entire time. And he had never known. Just as he had never known about the MP500 who had been at the party with them, too. How many others had gone through the same things he and North had? 

“Connor?” The Director comes into view, smiling warmly at him. “We’re ready for you.” 

The office is almost as big as the waiting room, equally green and lush with potted plants. The Director takes a seat at a conference table, Detective Reed and Lieutenant Anderson sitting at either side of her. The Lieutenant is still in his rented suit, though he’s taken off the tie and shoved the sleeves up his arms. His hands form a tight circle around his mug of coffee, like he’s afraid to let it go. 

“My name is Morgan Finch, Connor.” She manages to maintain practiced eye contact even as her fingers glide easily over a tablet. “Before we begin, I’d like to make it clear that you are here to provide a witness statement and nothing more.” Her eyes flash quickly over to Detective Reed in warning. “This is not an interrogation and you are not under arrest.” 

“That’s right,” Lieutenant Anderson echoes, even as Reed crosses his arms over his chest, silent but combative. 

“Let’s begin with you telling me what you remember from this evening.” 

Connor sits up straighter. “I remember waking up in the middle of a driveway without any clothing on. Lieutenant Anderson informed me that he’d called for backup, and we waited in an Audi T5 until they arrived.”

“Did Lieutenant Anderson tell you what you were doing at 1822 Lone Pine Road?” 

“He said he found me in an upstairs room at the party, and that I appeared to be under some kind of programming that forced me to obey any commands I was given.”

“But you don’t recall being at the party?”

“No.” 

Morgan’s fingers pause over the tablet. “Before I continue with my next series of questions, I would like to warn you that they may be sensitive in nature. Please answer them to the degree you are capable of and comfortable with.” 

Reed lets out a small snort that human ears probably wouldn’t hear.

“Do you have any memory of being sexually assaulted this evening?”

Connor can’t help but look at Lieutenant Anderson, who only stares down into his coffee without wavering.

“I don’t. Although—” he breaks off, the biocomponents in his chest suddenly tight, as if he’s not getting enough air. Air he doesn’t even need. 

“Yes?” Morgan prompts, her smile professional by reassuring.

Connor grasps for the most straight-forward, clinical terms he can find, and the discomfort in his chest eases up a bit. “My diagnostics indicate that my anal cavity experienced minor trauma which has since repaired itself.” 

“Do you have any memory of how this trauma was inflicted, or who it was inflicted by?” 

“No.” 

“Thank you, Connor.” She makes a few more notes while Reed yawns, shifting restlessly in his chair. “Do you know Charles Kowlaski?” 

“I know that he’s one of the people who has been keeping me captive since November. I saw him on several occasions during that time.”

“Can you tell me what you remember of your time in captivity?” 

_ Be careful _ , North’s voice whispers in Connor’s memory. 

“It was an underground facility, but I saw very little of it. Only a large room that was something like a laboratory, intended for experiments on androids, and the room I was kept in.”

“And you were kept there against your will?” 

“I was.” 

“Can you tell me more about what you experienced in this facility?” 

Connor starts with what’s easy: the collar that restricted access to his specialized functions; the cycle of damage endured and subsequent repairs; the deliberate draining off of his thirium.

“Do you have any idea why you were starved of thirium?”

_ Starved. _ Connor hadn’t thought of it as such until now. 

“Zlatko said it was so that I’d remember my life was in his hands, that my life belonged to him.” He says the words as matter-of-factly as possible, but has to clasp his hands together beneath the table to stop them from shaking. 

“And in all your time at the facility, the only other individuals you came into contact with were Charles Kowlaski and Zlatko Andronikov?”

“No, there was a man called Ozzy who would visit me in my room. He said he was my case-worker.” Connor continues, reciting near-verbatim everything Ozzy said to him on the first day that they met. 

The questioning continues for another full hour as Connor discloses everything he remembers--everything except the most humiliating, shameful parts. The pain of being beaten and shocked with the baton until he was sure he’d expire. The degradation of his body being invaded, violated in ways he had never known was possible. The confusion of being suspended in complete limbo, out of time, out of body, out of control. And through all the details of what he  _ does  _ share, Lieutenant Anderson never once looks at him, instead staring at coffee that never even passes his lips.

“Connor.” Morgan holds out her tablet. “Is this Zlatko Andronikov?”

The image is a mugshot from at least a decade ago, but it’s undoubtedly Zlatko. “That’s him.”

“And the man named Ozzy, do you know his full name?”

Connor shakes his head. “I can provide you with a visual composite.” 

Morgan hesitates, her mouth pursing. “You can?”

He gestures to the tablet in her hand. “I’ve just sent you it.” The device chimes and an image opens on screen, a photographic representation plucked directly from Connor’s memory archives, showing Ozzy’s strong, Nordic features and long blond hair.

“How useful,” she murmurs. “Though the facial recognition software doesn’t appear to have any matches.”

“He was from somewhere in England, an immigrant, I assume,” Connor explains. “I don’t think he was aware of the full extent of the operation. He tried to help me, in fact. He said he wanted to help me escape, but he feared what they would do to him if he tried.”

Lieutenant Anderson looks up sharply, abandoning the company of his coffee at last. “He did?”

“Yes.” 

Connor notes that the Lieutenant’s stress levels have shot up to over sixty percent. He says nothing further, but the number remains elevated.

_ At least he’s looking at me now. _

But with that thought, the Lieutenant returns to his coffee, this time for a sip that he swallows with a grimace. 

“Connor, that will be all for now. Thank you for your cooperation.” Morgan delivers a practiced closing speech, complete with pamphlets for counseling and phone numbers for victims advocacy groups. She seems kind, but Connor knows that she must talk to victims all day long. His will just be another name on her tablet, albeit one of the few without a last name.

It’s the Lieutenant who leads Connor hurriedly out of the office, leaving Reed behind to wrap things up with Morgan Finch. Once they’re alone in the stairwell, the Lieutenant snatches the counseling pamphlets out of Connor’s hand and crunches them into a ball.

“Bullshit.” He tosses the papers into the closest recycling bin, only shrugging at Connor’s questioning expression. “What? You weren’t planning to use them, were you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” He takes hold of Connor’s elbow and marches him down the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Connor doesn’t mind that Lieutenant Anderson is strong-arming him. It feels oddly good, in fact. Safe. But the sudden change in his demeanor is startling.

“My place.” He stops abruptly at the bottom step, eyes creased with worry. “You remember my house, right?”

Connor nods, reciting the address for good measure. 

“Good. Let’s go.” 

They drive in silence away from the station, but Lieutenant Anderson’s stress levels are still elevated higher than normal. 

“Have you eaten, Lieutenant?” 

The Lieutenant’s hands tighten around the wheel, his head jerking up as if spooked. “What? No. I’m not hungry.” 

Connor points at a pizza shop that’s still open. “You could stop for a pizza. I don’t mind waiting in the car.” 

The car swerves to the side of the road, braking to a stop. Lieutenant Anderson lowers his head for a moment, sighing into the steering wheel.

“Connor, are you seriously worried about whether I’ve eaten or not right now?” He looks up, eyes glinting with the neon lights from the pizza shop. 

“I don’t know,” Connor flounders. He can’t tell if it’s him that Lieutenant Anderson is so frustrated with, or something else. “Your stress lev—” he breaks off, swallowing unnecessarily. “You seem stressed, that’s all.” 

The Lieutenant’s eyes search Connor over, his shoulders slumping. “Don’t worry about me.” He shifts the car back into gear and steers back into the street. 

Neither of them speak until they reach Lieutenant Anderson’s house. It looks the same as Connor remembers, if a little tidier. The garbage bin is bulging with trash, but at least it’s not strewn about the kitchen, and the gun that the Lieutenant liked to play with when he was drunk is out of sight, too. Sumo bounds over to greet them, huffing at Connor once, then cautiously licking the back of his hand. 

“Hey, boy,” Connor says softly, scratching behind the dog’s ears. 

“He remembers you.” The Lieutenant strides into the living room, tossing his suit jacket onto the sofa. “Or he’s hoping you have food.” 

“Oh, I’ll feed him, then.” Connor heads for the kitchen, grabbing the bag of kibble off the top of the refrigerator and pouring some into Sumo’s dog bowl. The dog starts in at once, gulping the food down at an astonishing rate. “Go easy, you don’t want to choke.” 

“Connor, put that down.” The Lieutenant steps into the kitchen, hands anchored on his hips, his eyes trained down at his shoes. 

“Okay.” The bag of dog food returns to its exact same spot on top of the refrigerator, and when Connor turns around, he runs nearly head-on into the Lieutenant’s broad chest. Before he can utter a word, the other man’s arms come around him, crushing him tightly. 

“Lieutenant?” Connor hesitates, then circles his own arms loosely around the Lieutenant’s waist. 

“I’m sorry.” Lieutenant Anderson’s voice cracks, barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” He keeps chanting it, like a skipping record.

Connor’s eyes widen even as he’s hugged tighter, and he finally leans fully into the embrace, his body collapsing into that comforting warmth. “Why?” His voice is muffled by the Lieutenant’’s shoulder. “Why are you sorry?” 

“Because I thought you were dead. Because I tried to forget about you.” The words vibrate into the top of Connor’s head. “Because it took me so fucking long.” 

“It’s okay, Lieutenant.” He presses his palms into the Lieutenant's broad back, feeling his heartbeat thrumming away beneath his ribcage. 

“Jesus.” He breaks the embrace abruptly. “You shouldn’t be the one trying to comfort me. And just call me Hank, okay? You can drop that Lieutenant business.” 

Connor blinks a few times, puzzled by how quickly the moment ended, shut off like a faucet. “What happens now, Hank?”

“Beats me.” He runs his hand through his hair, breathing sharply through his nose. “We’ll need to talk, but not now. You should sleep.” 

Connor spreads his arms, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t need to.” 

“Oh, right.” Hank rubs at his eyes. “It’s me that needs the fucking sleep.” 

After filling Sumo’s bowl with fresh water, Hank staggers toward the bedroom, fatigue dragging every step. Connor follows him without asking, as if tugged by an invisible leash. 

“You can hang out in here if you want.” Hank flings open the door to a den of sorts, though it mostly seems to hold file boxes and paperback books. “Plenty of shit to read.” 

“I can’t stay in your room?” Connor finds it impossible to keep the disappointment from his voice. 

“Huh?” Hank reels in alarm at the suggestion, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he just heard. “And do what? Stand in the corner all night?” 

Connor twists his hands together, unable to meet Hank’s gaze. “I’d rather do that than be alone.” 

Hank takes a tentative step back, understanding slowly dawning over his face. “Oh. Well, sure. Make yourself at home.” He opens the door to his darkened bedroom and waves Connor in first. 

“Maybe you can look out the window, or something.” Hank yawns as he struggles out of his shirt and trousers, leaving them in a heap on the floor, then takes three heavy steps to the bed and collapses face down onto the mattress, dressed in his tee-shirt and boxer shorts. “Be weird to sleep with someone staring at me.” 

“You want me to look out the window?” Connor moves toward it, automatically reaching out to part the navy blue curtains. 

“Wha’ever.” Hanks voice is nearly gone, stolen by sleep. “Wha’ever you want.” 

Connor waits until Hank’s breathing goes deep and regular, then steps away from the window, picking Hank’s clothing up off the floor and folding both items neatly. He places them on top of the dresser and then sits himself down in the narrow, coffin-like space between it and Hank’s bed, legs outstretched, his back pressed against the nightstand. 

He cranes his neck a little so he can look at Hank, who’s tossed onto his side with his features crushed and bunched up by the pillow, lips slightly parted. Strands of silvery hair are caught in his eyebrows, and his left hand is draped over the edge of the mattress. Connor studies every crease in those knuckles, counting every hair and memorizing the dips and whorls of his fingerprints. 

_ Let me belong to you. _

Connor knows that it’s wrong to wish for such a thing, that he can never belong to someone who doesn’t actually want him, but it’s a wish he can’t possibly let go of. It’s the only thing that kept him alive in that dark, desperate place. He might be free from his prison, but the dark place is still there, hovering around him, waiting to swallow him whole again.

_ Please, let me belong to you.  _

There’s no answer aside from Hank’s deep, even breathing and the occasional rumble of the furnace.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Good morning, Hank.” 

Connor presents the cup of coffee to Hank as soon as he opens his eyes, squinting in the mid-morning light. It had been Connor’s intent to make breakfast, but the scant amount of food in the fridge was expired or moldy. He had fed Sumo and released him into the backyard, instead, then prepared a pot of dark roast coffee, pouring the finished product into one of the many novelty mugs from the cabinet. 

“What time is it?” Hank croaks, attempting to roll upright. 

“Twenty ‘til ten.” Connor stretches the mug toward him again. “The coffee is black, I know that’s how you like it.” 

“I haven’t slept that late in a while.” Hank rubs at his eyes, then takes the mug from Connor’s hand. “How long have you been standing there with that?” 

“Not long.” It had been almost twenty-two minutes. Connor had adjusted the temperature of his hands to keep the beverage steaming at 175 degrees. “I was going to prepare breakfast, but there was no suitable food.” 

Hank takes a reluctant swig of the coffee. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Wait on me like some kind of butler.” 

“I know. I made you coffee because I wanted to.” 

“You sure about that?” His frown is doubtful, tinged with worry. 

Connor clasps his hands at the small of his back and smiles. “Did you invite me to stay at your house because you felt like you ‘had to?’” 

Hank lifts an eyebrow. “Nope. Guess you have a point, there.” 

Connor leaves the bedroom, aware that humans prefer some privacy as they get ready in the morning. He looks through Hank’s vast record collection while he waits, wondering why the Lieutenant prefers such an antiquated medium. Vinyl warps and cracks easily, and features a variety of sound imperfections. Physical books, too, are difficult to maintain, with their fragile spines and paper. And both take up so much  _ space _ . 

“Whatcha doing?” Hank walks into the living room, his hair still damp from a shower. 

“Looking at your records. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Knock yourself out.” He pads in bare feet to the kitchen and pours himself a second cup of coffee. 

“Do you have any John Coltrane records?” 

“‘Course.” Hank snorts into his coffee cup. “You like John Coltrane now?” 

“From what I’ve heard of him, yes.” Connor looks up from the shelf of records. “But I’ve decided that I don’t really care for Knights of the Black Death.” 

“Yeah?” To Connor’s relief, Hank doesn’t seem particularly offended. “What made you change your mind?” 

“When I told you I liked them, I was just trying to get you to like me.” 

“You think I didn’t know that?” Hank laughs abruptly. “Should have heard yourself. ‘I really like that music! It’s full of...energy!’” He mimics Connor with an absurdly high, eager voice. 

Connor laughs too, embarrassed, but finds that he doesn’t much mind. “Can you blame me? You were so grouchy.” 

Hank shrugs, looking a bit pleased with himself. “What can I say? I’m an acquired taste. Sort of like Knights of the Black Death.” He empties the rest of his coffee into the sink and turns off the coffee maker. “I do need to get some breakfast in me. And you—” he comes out into the living area “--we have to get you some different clothes. You look like an escaped mental patient in that jumpsuit.” 

Connor studies the baggy cuffs of the jumpsuit. “Should I wear something of yours?” He tries to picture himself in one of Hank’s brightly-patterned shirts, shivering slightly at the thought of feeling the fabric against his skin all day long.

“Nah, you’d be swimming in my clothes. I gotta return that rental suit to the shop, so we can just pick you up a few things while we’re out.” 

They’ve missed the worst of the morning traffic and make it across town in under twenty minutes, even fitting in a quick stop for a breakfast burrito. The mens’ shop that Hank leads him into sells a little of everything, from business wear to more casual clothes, like jeans, sweaters, and sneakers. Connor fingers each item on the rack uncertainly, having no idea where to start. 

“See anything you like?” Hank comes up behind him, his footsteps heavy, but not impatient.

“I’m not sure.” Connor touches a stone-gray, button down jacket from the business casual rack. “This looks the most like my assigned Cyberlife uniform.” 

“It’s not bad. But you can wear whatever you like now. Go wild.” 

He ends up buying the jacket, simply because it seems familiar, but also selects a sweater with blue, black, and white stripes, a pair of jeans, and other essentials that Hank insists he will need. 

“You should get this, too.” Hank holds up a forest-green button down with short sleeves, pressing it to Connor’s chest like he’s imagining him inside the garment. “It suits your coloring.”

A rush of thirium rises to his cheeks as Connor takes the shirt in hand. “Okay.” 

He ends up wearing the green shirt out of the shop, along with new shoes, a black peacoat, and dark gray trousers. It feels strange to not be wearing a uniform, or pajamas for that matter. It feels strange to be wearing something that  _ suits his coloring _ .

When Hank drives them out to the Riverwalk, his demeanor turns quiet and serious. “I told you we needed to talk. This seems as good a place as any.” 

The air is brisk but the day is bright and sunny, melting the snow into slushy puddles. When they reach the river bank Hank grips the railing and gazes out at the water.

“Last night, I know you didn’t tell Morgan Finch everything.” He sighs, the wind blowing his hair across his eyes. “And that’s okay. I understand--I wouldn’t want to get into that kind of shit either, if I was you.” He brushes his hair away, his expression serious. “But I want you to know that  _ I _ know how bad it must have been.” 

The concrete feels wavy and unstable under Connor’s feet. This wasn’t the kind of talk he was expecting. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, his voice small. 

“But if you’re thinking of hunting down Andronikov and doing to him what you did to Kowalski, just don’t. Please, for your own sake, don’t.” Hank raises up a hand to wave away any protest. “We can try to play dumb about what happened to Chuckie, but when it comes to Zlatko we have to go by the book. Otherwise, well…” He swallows, looking back into the water. “I don’t know how much I can protect you.” 

Connor resists the urge to reach out and take Hank’s arm. “But I don’t remember killing Chuckie. I swear, I really don’t.” 

Hank shakes his head toward the ground. “I believe you, but others won’t. And the trauma you must have endured...well, it would make anyone snap.” 

“I won’t snap.” 

But even as he says the words, Connor feels the tug of that dark place, like a set of black eyes, following him no matter where he runs. 

“Good. Though I’m not sure I won’t.” Hank snorts, finally releasing the guard rail and facing Connor head-on. “But I’ll hold you back if you hold me back. Deal?” 

A rush of gratitude nearly knocks Connor off his feet. He smiles and flings himself at Hank, wrapping his arms around the larger man, his nasal receptors taking in his scent of black coffee and Irish Spring soap. 

Hank gives him a generous pat on the back, but still, Connor doesn’t let go. 

“Connor?” He finally prompts, his voice low and questioning. “What are you doing?” 

Connor smiles into the shoulder of Hank’s jacket. “Holding you back?” 

“I meant that metaphorically.” 

“But there’s something I have to tell you.” Connor feels his smile fade. “And I’m not sure I want to see your face when I do.” 

“Okay, then. Your mouth’s practically in my ear, so go for it.” 

Connor closes his eyes, his thirium pump wracking through the center of his chest. “It was bad, just like you said. Really bad. There was only one thought I had that kept me sane, that whole time.” 

“What’s that?” Hank sounds like he isn’t sure he wants to know.

“I just told myself, over and over again, that I belonged to Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Zlatko told me that I was his, that he owned me, but as soon as I was alone, I’d just remind myself that I belonged to you, Hank Anderson.” Connor says it all in a rush, worried that if he doesn’t now, he never will. “Even now, I still wish I belonged to you.” 

Hank goes very quiet, arms falling loose at his sides. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers, his optics going damp. “I know I haven’t got any right.” 

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank doesn’t sound angry, just sad. “That’s just...kind of fucked up. You know that, right?” 

Connor nods into his shoulder, unable to find words. 

Hank takes a step backward, pulling out of Connor’s embrace. “What am I supposed to do with this information?” His voice inches up a register, face pinched with worry and alarm. 

“Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. I just needed to tell you.” 

Hank shakes his head, jamming his hands into his pockets. “It’s a lot to take.” 

A pair of cormorants swoop over their heads, diving for fish below, and they both turn their heads to watch them, grateful for the distraction. 

“Let’s just get to the station,” Hank finally says. “I’m late enough as it is.” 

Connor stares at his retreating back, wondering if he should have held his words in, should have kept the truth locked away in his fantasies. But he doesn’t want to lie anymore, he doesn’t want to be something that he’s not. 

He might be broken, but at least he’s not a machine. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- there's still more a lot to the plot and action, but things will slow a bit from here on out, with some focus on Connor's recovery and his developing relationship with Hank. <3  
\- i fully stand by Connor's somewhat soppy confession to Hank near the end of this chapter. He doesn't have the self-consciousness and hangups that humans have, after all!  
\- Comments are much much appreciated, or questions, or whatever! Talk to me. :>

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is the first fanfic I've written in a while, and my first for the DBH fandom. Please forgive any canon errors I may commit!  
\- To avoid spoilers, I haven't tagged everything  
\- This is a fully-planned out multi-chap fic; I will be doing my best to upload chapters once a week  
\- Comments are extremely, extremely welcome!


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